(This is a guest blog, written by my best friend Alan Scardapane. Check out his music at http://www.alanscardapane.com. Enjoy!)
Hi. My name is Alan Scardapane, and I’m Bisexual.
This little known fact is something that I have kept to myself for a very, very long time. In fact, I had not told a single soul until yesterday, November 9, 2016. I’m not quite sure where to begin with this “essay.” I guess I’ll start by trying to evaluate what exactly drove me to share this with the world at this exact moment. As many of you know I have spent the last couple of months lobbying against Donald Trump and his candidacy. In fact, I’m sure a good lot of you hate me for it. And that’s fair. After all, who wants to see some dopey, white, straight kid tirelessly going on and on about politics on social media. I have no doubt that I lost many friends.
This election cycle was so important to me because of its social implications. In my eyes, I saw a man rise to power through horrifically bigoted, violent rhetoric. It scared the absolute shit out of me. The reality is that Donald Trump himself, as a lone man, will not have the power to implement change in this country. However, he WILL be appointing a Supreme Court Justice, and THAT REALLY scares the shit out of me. What’s more is that its truly the American people who will ultimately be the ones who dictate the social climate of this nation. What I find so horrifying about Trump and many of his constituents’ rhetoric is what it puts at stake here for anyone who is “different.” And by different I mean anyone of color, members of the LGBTQ community, immigrants, women, etc. But what I REALLY mean is anyone who is not a white, straight male. I’m worried that some of the great steps towards social progress that we have taken may now be in dire jeopardy.
I have been remarkably vocal about my views, and I truly thank anyone who decided to listen whether they agreed or disagreed. But I guess the point here was that it was time to walk the walk, not just talk the talk. I figure what better time than now when the stakes are highest, while tensions soar, and the fabric of everyday American life hangs in the balance. The fact of the matter is that we are seeing an unprecedented amount of hatred, and PEOPLE ARE SCARED. This is why I chose to come out on November 9, 2016. I spent the whole day with a knot in my stomach, trying to understand why, aside from the obvious above mentioned reasons, I was feeling so distraught… so failed by the results of this election. I have known for about a decade, ever since I became sexually aware, that I am bisexual. I just never had the courage to say it. Though I always considered myself a friend of the LGBTQ community, what good was I doing keeping this to myself? And so I realized that I was feeling so hurt, so scared, because I wanted more than anything to reach out and scream “IM CRYING TOO. IM SCARED TOO. THIS AFFECTS ME DIRECTLY, VISCERALLY, PERSONALLY!” But I couldn’t because I was closeted. I could only stand on the sidelines, hooting and hollering as loud as possible upon deaf ears.
(With that said, I want you to understand that I have NEVER personally been a victim of hatred based on my gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, etc. And I am not trying to act as if I have. I have lived twenty-four years of incredible privilege, twenty-four years in a bubble. Please do not think that I believe I have any idea of what it is like to be oppressed or scared for my life. I don’t.)
I’m aware of how polarizing this coming out may be. I spent my entire life playing sports (admittedly, not particularly well,) immersing myself, as a young man in particular, in an incredibly straight atmosphere. This revelation may come as a shock to some. And I’m sure it may not be shocking at all to others. I’m sure I will be accused of being a lying liberal, just begging for attention. I’m okay with that. I’m sure there will be many of you who start a group chat with friends to call me a “fag.” I’m okay with that as well. It’s not like you weren’t doing it before. But more than anything I want to be myself. I want to be authentic. I want to be TRUE to myself and also true to YOU! And the fact of the matter is that I am attracted to both men and women.
I was lucky enough to have the great pleasure of attending an Allen Stone concert about a month ago. For those of you who aren’t familiar with him, he is a crazy ass dude with long hair and goofy glasses, son of a pastor, who sings the most lovely, empowering, beautiful, soulful, POSITIVE songs in the world. He is an absolute breath of fresh air in an increasingly hostile, negative world. Personally, I prefer depressing music, I’m kind of a dark guy. But I had seen some of his videos and was immediately blown away by his voice. So when my friends asked me to go, I said why the hell not. He sang a song called “Where You’re At.” I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since:
“I keep my dirt on the surface so you don’t gotta dig
The people didn’t make me nervous, tried to hide all of their sins
And I’ve got no reason to cover my tracks
The best part of learning is just loving where you’re at.”
And so, my name is Alan Scardapane and I’m a Bisexual man! I can tell you that in this moment I finally, truly can say that I love where I’m at. If we want to be the change we want to see in this world, then we have to start by evaluating ourselves, and determining how we can be better human beings. Coming out does not make me a better man, however, my hope is that it will allow me to reach my full potential as a human being. We’ve got all sorts of different people in their weird ass world and if we want to grow we MUST start by attempting to love them all.
I love you, and I hope you can love me, as me.
Shouts Out: The most thank you’s imaginable to Sarah Laughlin for being the most helpful, amazing friend and confidant, as always. Thank you so much for giving me this outlet. Your blogs are part of the reason I had enough confidence to do this.
Thank you to Chelsea B-F, who wasn’t so surprised when I told her.
Thank you to my roommates Riley and James and Tino for smiling big smiles, and hugging me when I told them.
And last but not least, thank you to my lovely family, my mother Marijean, my father Joe, and brother Dan for being so incredibly supportive.
I love you all with the force of a thousand glaciers.
For those of you who don’t know, I’ve spent the past two years working as a full time counselor at a residential home for teenage boys. The boys struggle with behavioral and emotional regulation, and live at the facility 24/7. The population in particular that I’ve been working with are in a sexualized behaviors program. As is true of most behaviors, negative ones are often cyclical, learned from observation or experience. And so while these boys are there for a reason, and have made mistakes with serious consequences, most often these behaviors are trauma reactive. They are difficult to work with, but they are even more difficult to not fall in love with.
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We were driving back from Six Flags when Joey turned to me with a confused look on his face. I could feel a question coming, and patiently waited for him to find the words. Joey’s one of the more cognitively limited clients that I work with. Egregious early childhood trauma combined with learning disabilities and topped off with head injuries (many self-inflicted) have created a 17 year old young man with the mental and emotional skills of a 7 year old. After a long minute, he said, “I’m feeling weird.” “Weird how, honey? Are you sick?” I asked. “No, weird like my feelings. I just got hit with emotions. Can you be happy and sad at the same time?” Hm. Such a simple mind, such a brilliant question. He went on to explain that being at the theme park had brought up an old family memory of going to one. The memory made him smile, but then right after he felt a terrible, choking sadness, as the family he was remembering was not something that existed anymore.
As he spoke, my heart perked up and my mind bounced in a hundred directions as I tried to figure out how to explain such an incredibly complex emotion, one that I spent so much time mulling over, in a way that would be accessible to him. “Have you ever heard the word ‘bittersweet’ Joey? Do you know what it means? It’s when something is sweet and good, but has a bitter or bad aftertaste. Sometimes one part of something makes us so happy, but another part of it makes us really upset. When things are bittersweet, it means we feel both happy and sad about it, at the same time. Crazy, huh?” “Yeah that’s crazy,” he replied. “I feel that way a lot,” I said. “Yeah, I think I do too, he replied. Joey rode the rest of the way home in silence, staring intently at the trees as they whizzed by his window.
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As I laid in bed this past Sunday night and thought about the coming week, I began to feel a bit nauseous. The room was still and quiet, but I could feel the landscape around me shifting, life flying by, just like Joey had watched outside the van window that summer afternoon. I was beginning to feel the motion sickness of a life in transition. After two full, crazy years working in a residential home with teenage boys, this week was my last. In 5 short days I begin orientation at a new job, working as a counselor in a therapeutic engagement community in a men’s medium security prison. This is quite literally my dream job, the work that I’ve been passionately pursuing, thirsting after, for all of my adult life. And yet I’ve never been good at goodbyes, or transition periods in general, and this one is proving to be quite difficult.
As the Sunday scaries took ahold of me, I began to feel anxious about my coming, final week, and let myself get a little bit too lost in sadness. Before I knew it was fully engrossed in this unnecessary, over the top, self-indulgent melancholy. Thankfully, I was brought back to reality when the memory of my post Six Flags convo with Joey popped into my head. I realized that I was dwelling too much on sadness when what I needed to do was marry that with the immense gratitude that I was also feeling, balance out my despair with some joy. Happy and sad at the same time, bittersweet.
And so bittersweet is the official word of the week. Nothing more accurately represents how incredibly challenging, irritating, heartbreaking, life changing, and wonderful my last two years in resi have been. These boys have put me through the full spectrum of emotions, from love to hate. There are so many things I’m glad to be leaving behind, and yet so many more that I’m gonna sorely miss.
On the top of the list of things I’m gonna miss is the way that the boys greet me each day when I pick them up from school. On Mondays, after a weekend apart, they’ll race to me and compete to see who can get the first hug. What an incredible fucking way to start my day, to have people waiting in line to hug me. I’m gonna miss those squeezes, a lot. I’m gonna miss the funny nicknames they have for me, the way their voices decorate and bedazzle my name, making it sound like music. I’m gonna desperately miss the way one kiddo calls me mom. I know it’s weird, and it’s definitely a bit of a boundary issue (I’ve told him a million times that I’m not his mom, I’m his staff,) but goddamn, my heart floods each time he says it. He was taken from his mom at the age of 4 (“she was really sick,” he tells me), and has spent the last 10 years bouncing between more foster homes than seems fathomable or fair. One time the other kids offered him $10 to go without calling me mom for a week and he yelped, “No, I could never do that, I’d hate it!” When I finally I asked him why he calls me mom, he said, “because you remind me of her. I don’t remember much, but I remember she had dark hair, and liked to sing and hum, and was nice to me, just like you!” What an honor, and how humbling, to be called mom by someone who’s been missing theirs for so long.
I’m not, however, gonna miss the things they call me when they’re in a bad mood. Before working resi, there were some words that terrified me. I’m a lover of language, and firm believer in the power that it wields. I hate to say it, but I’m largely desensitized now. I’ve been called more horrible things than I care to repeat, threatened in scarier ways than I would have ever imagined. I’m often able to revisit the incidents after the fact and appreciate them for their comedic value, like when a kid spit-screamed into my face that I was a “dildo bitch!” and then, like an hour later when he had calmed down, asked me what a dildo was. Really dude? Or there’s my all time favorite insult, “cum-guzzling maggot whore,” which a kid with a remarkably low IQ yelled at me, simultaneously pissing me off and making me proud of him for stringing so many words together into a cohesive insult. Some of them make for great stories, but some of them are rough, even in hindsight. Like being called a cunt. That one is never funny for me. That one always sucks. Not gonna miss it.
I am gonna miss the way they constantly look to us staff for advice, information, and opinions. I’ve gotten to have this cool relationship with them where I’m a combination of authority figure and mentor, a mix of obnoxious parental fixture and cool older sister. We challenge them, we annoy them, we discipline them, and yet they look up to us in a way, ask for our guidance, seek our approval. I’m gonna miss all of the awkward, heart warming, coming-of-age conversations about crushes and sexuality and puberty and family and school and friends. I’m not totally gonna miss all of the conversations about masturbation, (you can only go over it so many times), but hey, I’m glad they’re at least asking the questions and having those conversations! I’m gonna miss trading music tastes and embarrassing them by attempting the latest dance crazes. I’m gonna miss watching them test different selves out, trial and error, looking for an identity that fits and is comfortable. The way they’re so curious, many mature beyond their years because of what they’ve been witness to, but still so naive and pure. I’m gonna miss how excited they are to show me when they get a new pair of sneakers, how they beam with pride when they help me make dinner for the house, how they ask me questions about current events and politics and listen so openly and earnestly to my responses. I’m gonna miss how they ask me if their outfit matches, how to talk to a girl, what my favorite Chance song is.
I’m not, however, going to miss all of the times when they have asked questions that I haven’t had the answers to, that they’re just aren’t answers to. Why doesn’t my dad speak to me? Why can’t I go home? Why does my mom care more about drugs than seeing me? Why did he have to die? Why did the police take me away and lock her up? Where am I going to end up? What do I have to live for? These brutal questions are the undercurrents of their lives. Even on the good days, the happy days, the trips to Six Flags, these questions sit in these boys’ hearts. Whenever they bubble up to the surface, as they’re prone to do, I am at a loss for words. How do you respond to these questions when the only conceivable answer is “because this world is terribly cruel sometimes”. I will never forget listening as one boy pleaded with his mom over the phone to stop doing drugs and save that money for groceries. He even offered her his chore money to help her move into a better apartment if she promised she wouldn’t use it for booze. I hugged him a little extra tight that night, and sobbed my entire drive home. Or late one night when I found one of the boys on the back porch, drenched in tears. When I asked what was wrong, he became frantic, screaming and crying about how he had been let down once again by someone who was supposed to take care of him. How he had no one whom he could call family, because his relatives brought more hurt and pain into his life than love. Cheeks stained in tears, he looked me right in the eyes and said, “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you guys and my DCF worker and everything, but I just wish someone would care about me who wasn’t paid to care about me. Just one person.” And in that moment I realized that I had no words to comfort him, no advice, no answers. And so I just cried with him. I’m not gonna miss that feeling of intense helplessness I would get while watching one of these kids who I loved so much, hurt so badly.
I’ve had some of the most inspiring and beautiful days of my life working with these boys, and some of the absolute darkest and scariest. I’ve got to watch some graduate high school, go to college, and seen others’ mugshots on the five o’clock news. I’m gonna miss the authentic, unmatched joy of playing catch on the front lawn, making brownie sundaes together, singing along to the car radio in unison with 8 boys and the windows down. I’m not gonna miss the 911 calls, the restraints, or the bloody wrists. So many bloody wrists. I’ve watched them succeed and fail over and over again, cheered on every baby step forward and begrudgingly come to terms with the setbacks. I’ve tried, and am still trying, to figure out how to not take disappointments and failures personally, and how to let myself revel in the minor successes.
I’ve been a part of some major life crises. Sometimes, I’ve been helpful. There is nothing more rewarding or satisfying than helping a child in crisis navigate their way back to safety. I love that part of my job- when they surrender their anger and pain to you and trust you to help them steady their breathing, get back to baseline, find comfort again. How incredible of a burden to get to bear. When I am able to problem solve, to calm down, to de-escalate, I feel so competent, so incredibly useful and important. One boy wrote me a birthday card last year and said “as long as there are people like you in this world, I feel like I’m gonna make it, like I can still shine, just like you.” I’ll give you one guess as to what my reaction to his card was- yup, you guessed it, more tears! That one sentence has gotten me through a hundred hard nights.
Sometimes, though, I’ve made things worse. There is nothing more upsetting and guilt-inducing than making a child in crisis worse. I have made mistakes and seen their consequences play out in real time, affect real people, create real problems. I’ve said the wrong thing, made the wrong decision, given the wrong response more times than I can count. One time pretty early into the job, one of the boys thought it would be a funny prank to hide under his bed and pretend he had run away. When I was doing room checks and saw his bed empty, his deceivery worked and I spent twenty minutes freaking the fuck out searching for him, until another staff member heard noises coming from his room. I ran over right as he crawled out from under his bed, giggling. When I saw him, I felt extreme relief wash over my rigid body. But this weird thing happened- that relief manifested itself into anger, and all of the sudden I found myself screaming at this poor little boy. I scolded him on high volume for worrying me so badly, demanded he wipe the smirk off his face, warned him to never do that again, or else! I was so out of control that another staff tapped me out and told me to go take a breather. In a few minutes I returned and was told that he had gone AWOL for real this time, sprinted out of his room and into the woods when I had walked away. I had yelled so loudly, made him feel so terrible and uncomfortable, that he really had left, the thing I was terrified of in the first place.
This was my first of many minor freakouts that I had permanently soiled my relationship with a kid/ added to their laundry list of traumas inflicted by caretakers/ ruined everything forever. I was devastated. I hyperventilated to my coworkers about how it was all my fault, and about how I had ruined everything forever, and they told me, simply: You are going to make mistakes. The difference between us and the other adults that have hurt them in their life is that we have the chance to admit when we are wrong, apologize, and try to make it right. To show them that relationships don’t break when there is a problem, but grow stronger.
About a half hour later, when the client had calmed down and returned to the house, I asked to speak with him. As soon as the words began to spill out of my mouth, I could feel my eyes wavering and tried my best to keep my emotions at bay. But before I could get far into my apology, the boy stopped me. “It’s okay,” he said. “But I’m just so sorry,” I squeaked, and again he stopped me. “You’re up here, Sarah,” he said as raised both his hands above his head, “I need you to be down here, breathe” he said, as he pulled his hands slowly to chest level. Wait, was he using de-escalating techniques on me? (And better yet, had he actually been listening and retained something from all of those times I had tried to help him?!) “Please don’t cry. It’s just you’re usually so nice, and when you yelled at me, I knew I had really messed up, and so I ran away. But I’m back now, and I’m sorry, and I’m gonna give you a hug, okay, and we’re fine, okay?” And with a quick hug we were back to good, crisis averted. Everything was not, in fact, ruined forever. I quickly learned that the resilience of these kids is unreal, unrivaled, unimaginable. Their hearts are elastic.They are magic.
I’m gonna miss getting to learn from them. I may be an adult by all legal and social definitions, but so many days I feel like I’m just a kid too. And aren’t we all? Aren’t adults just kids in bigger bodies? Our wishes and fears mostly the same, our impulse control and social skills hopefully a bit more manicured. But we’re all just big kids at the end of the day. These boys have taught me so much, and in so many ways we have grown up together over the past two years. I’m gonna miss the absurdly powerful perspective that they provide me every day- that my worst days would be someone else’s best, that people are trudging through lives much more difficult than mine and still making it, that I have SO goddamn much to be thankful and grateful for. They show me the expanse of the human heart over and over again, each time more vast than I had previously thought possible. It almost makes no sense- their backgrounds are so horrific, their offenses so brutal, their behaviors so erratic, success so hard to come by, so minor and slow moving- and yet, I have never been so inspired, or so hopeful, as I am when I am surrounded by them.
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When I told the boys that I would be leaving, Joey took it the hardest. Though his first response to most stressors is anger, this time it was different. He excused himself from dinner, retreated to the darkness of his bedroom, hid under the covers, and sobbed. I had tried to prepare myself to this, sought out advice from my mentors, played a million reaction scenarios over in my head, reminded myself that this move was important and necessary in my life, and yet I still felt like a giant sack of shit. Rationally, I knew that the only one who would really struggle would be me, that the boys had been through much worse and would be fine, bounce back in no time. And yet I still felt like a big fat jerk, like I was heartlessly abandoning people who I loved, and who had gingerly, slowly entrusted me enough to love me back. Sitting with Joey as he cried, I thought of all the adults who had hurt him before, and added myself to the list.
But then I remembered: “bittersweet”. There was more than sadness and self-pity here. There was joy, genuine emotion and connection, reasons to sing and celebrate. A few days later Joey was struggling again with me leaving, and rather than apologize or feel bad, I reminded him of our conversation about the word “bittersweet.” That this is hard and sad, but this is good. To really drive it home, I decided to share with Joey a quote from one of my favorite philosophers, Winnie the Pooh: “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard,” I told him. “We are so freakin lucky that we got to be in each other’s lives.” As hard as this transition has been and is going to be on me, and on them, how amazing is it that a meager entry-level job has brought this much insight, passion, emotion, humility, and beauty into my life.
Before he walked away, Joey gave me a hug. I’m gonna miss those squeezes, a lot.
Like most people, summer is one of my favorite times of the year. The sun is out, the temperature is up, and the world is bright and beautiful again. Life is full of beaches and vacations and it’s the perfect time to be carefree and relax with loved ones!
But as much as I love it, summer has always been a particularly tough season for me. As lovely as the warm weather is, it can be pretty brutal because of what is intrinsically tied to it: body issues being pushed to the forefront. As much as I yearn to be carefree, summer always brings with it an onslaught of anxiety and self-consciousness that’s been hiding under my oversized sweaters all winter long.
Forreal though, I know I can’t be the only person who feels a mix of terror and excitement during the summer months. On one side, I’m so eager to be outside, to enjoy the elements, to run around and swim and play, to shed my winter layers for bronzed summer skin. But at the tail-end of that lovely thought is the creeping fear of my body being on display. It’s tricky to navigate the want to be a part of things coupled with the anxiety of standing out.
Everyone sturggles with their body image from time to time, but for some of us it can be more serious than others. For some of us it can be debilitating.
Before I continue, let me pause for a second and remind y’all of something. I lead a privileged, padded life, surrounded by green trees, beautiful music, and people who love me. I’m so incredibly grateful for all I have, and I know that in the grand scheme of things my problems are so trivial it’s laughable. And yet, pain is relative, and as miniscule and foolish of a problem as this is, there’s real hurt behind it.
Let me explain. Every couple of months, I feel myself going through a little dip. Sometimes it’s quick and relatively calm, but sometimes it lingers and really puts me down for some time. I can tell when they’re coming because it always starts the same way. As many of you know, I am a sickeningly social creature. I get antsy and anxious if I’m alone too long, and when it comes to hangouts, the more people the better. I want everyone! I want it all! And so, when I start to get anxious to BE around all my friends, I know something’s up. I start to feel really unexcited and apathetic, which is totally out of character for me, because I’m usually one to start looking forward to the coming weekend on Sunday nights. All of the sudden, it will be Friday and I’ll have plans, and I’ll feel super conflicted about if it’s even worth going. And then I’ll go, and of course I’ll have fun, but I’ll feel on edge and raw and irritable. When these feelings crop up inside me, they have a rough ripple effect on my friends- I snap at people, and randomly cry, and yeah it’s just bad news bears.
I’ve realized that these messy emotional spells and discomfort typically stem from one thing- low self esteem. Okay let’s be honest- self hate. I’ve struggled to be around my friends at times, because during those times I just don’t really want to be seen or looked at. Now you have to understand how scary it is for me to admit this. As a human being, but particularly as a woman, society puts all of my capital in my image and the way I carry myself. I’ve never been much of a looker, but I’ve been told that what I don’t have in beauty I can make up for in confidence. Thank god! And so for all these years, confidence has been my saving grace, convincing myself and others that I am beautiful and worthy of love.
And so admitting that I don’t have any- that my confidence, at times, is completely shot- is terrifying. It feels like I just threw away my one chance at ever being desirable. (Seriously, I’ve rethought posting this a hundred times because I don’t want a guy I’m into to read it and find it unattractive. So stupid). So that’s sick!
My story of body hatred begins at a ripe young age, as many peoples’ do. The first time I can remember being aware that I even had a body, let alone that it was the wrong type of body, was in 4th grade. It was recess and we were playing Red Rover. (THE BEST GAME, right?! That’s what I used to think). The memory still sits stark in my mind. As I stood there in line, grasping my friends hands, waiting for the next name to be called, the line across from me began their synchronized chant, “Red Rover, Red Rover, we’re calling you over, we’re calling for BIG AND CHUBBY to come running over!” As they all began to snicker, I glanced to my left and right, wondering who the poor soul they were talking about was. When I noticed all eyes staring back at me, I suddenly realized that they had been talking about me. As my cheeks flushed red and my eyes welled up, I charged, as fast and as strong as I could, and ran headlong through two hooked arms. Then I ran to hide and cry. My favorite teacher, Ms. Casavant, found me in a ball on the ground, and took me inside to her classroom to console me. And thus, at ten years old, the war was waged, and my battle to love myself and my body began.
Next came the teenage years, but those don’t count because they’re brutal for literally everyone. I actually did a pretty good job in middle school and high school. Again, I was never pretty per se, but I wore confidence like a cape and had this uncanny superpower of making myself feel beautiful. My good sense of humor and sunny disposition made me well-liked, so I did well! On top of that I was a huge tomboy, so between football and softball and using my free period to play speedball in gym, I was healthy enough. Never beautiful, but always passable. Enough. And as self-demeaning as that may sound, I was pretty happy with it. I’ve always felt successful physically when I feel “not ugly”. It may not be pretty, but that’s just unrealistic, and hey, it could be worse.
College brought with it a whole new bag of tricks. As I said, in high school I was relatively content being the bigger girl, okay being overlooked. In college, it started to unsettle me, and the body issues began to resurface. Because of my calm, cool, collected facade (LOL), they’ve always manifested themselves in subtle ways. Or at least, I’ve tried to keep them subtle. I did a pretty solid job in the beginning. Again, I was playing sports, (this time rugby), so I was decently happy with where I was at. I learned to dress my curves, embrace my “womanly” figure and flaunt my assets. (BTW- I love being a curvy woman. I wouldn’t change it for the world, it’s who I am and what I come from). I did okay!
By junior year, though, I ran out of patience. I’ve not had a very good romantic life, and right or wrong, I’ve always attributed that to my weight issues- feeling too big to be loved and deemed attractive. I still very much feel this way. I know it’s stupid, but it’s hard for me to look at a history of failed attempts and friendzones and not believe that the deterrent is my appearance. At the time in college I was chasing this boy, and we vibed really well, and all the pieces seemed to be there, but it was pretty clear that he wasn’t attracted to me. I tried to push past it, to be a rational human being, but I just couldn’t. In the first of what became many minor mental breakdowns over my weight and body image, I broke. I walked through townhouses with my friend, sobbing so hard my knees were weak, repeating over and over, “If I were twenty pounds less he would love me. If I were twenty pounds less he would love me.” Yes, that is the most ridiculous thing to drunkenly repeat a hundred times. I realize that now, looking back. But in that moment, it felt so real. After my friends dropped me off at my apartment, I picked up my phone and called my older brother Ryan. In what’s since become a really important moment for me in our sibling bond, he happened to be awake and pick up. Round 2! Again, choking on my gushing tears, I vented to him something along the lines of “I am ugly and no one will ever love me.” Ryan, the goddamn saint and greatest big brother in the world, told me that he loved me and that I was beautiful, and somehow even made me laugh in the process, and consoled me until I fell asleep on the phone.
After this first little breakdown I thought that I had a hold on things. Again, I relied heavily on forced confidence and fake smiles to get me through, and I did a pretty good job convincing those around me that I was fine. But my body issues would leak out in strange ways. Seemingly simple, trivial things would make me irritable or sad and I’d always just attribute it to a stressful day or a bad mood so people wouldn’t realize the embarrassing heart of the issue.
For example- getting dressed to go out was, and still is, very difficult for me. Ask my poor roommates- I try on six different outfits a night, complain that I hate them all, and get super worked up, every damn time. I played it off as being indecisive or being sick of my clothes but the truth was that the simple task of trying to dress myself and look and feel attractive when I was surrounded by my thin, beautiful friends was incredibly daunting and upsetting. I tried on outfit after outfit and cursed the clothes but what I was really doing was cursing my body and myself. Getting dressed is really fucking hard when you hate what you look like.
Or there was the time in the dead of winter that my friend offered me a ride home from the bars. We had missed the last bus and it was either accept the kind offer or walk 2 freezing miles home in the snow. Obviously the ride was the way to go! But when we went to get in his car, I realized that it was already full and the only way we could fit was if my friend and I each sat on one of the guys’ laps. She hopped right in and motioned for me to come, but anxiety flooded over me and I couldn’t move. I said no and told them I was just gonna walk home. They all looked at me like I was crazy, (because I was), and yelled at me to get in the car and stop being ridiculous. So I started to walk away and the tears started to come. Seconds later I was sobbing and when my friend joined me to see what was going on, I made up some bullshit excuse for tears and she consoled me. In reality, I was having another minor break. I couldn’t accept the ride because I’d have to sit on someone’s lap, and that would make me and them painfully aware of my size and weight. And I would rather get hypothermia than face that.
(I also freak out when people try to hug me and lift me off the ground; I hate the idea of them realizing how heavy I really am.)
After each one of these minor outbreaks I would tell myself I had gotten it all out, that I was good now, and resort back to repressing. But my body image issues followed me, travelling abroad with my all the way to Argentina where I had an incredibly petty meltdown over my back fat one night (wtf Sarah? Really?), and then back home for my senior year at Umass where I would pick apart pictures my friends posted from fun nights out, dwelling far too long on double chins and completely overlooking all the genuine smiles.
My body issues followed me right into the real world, too. Last year I had to get my license renewed because it had expired. I went to the RMV, waited in that obnoxiously long line, and had my picture taken. I was in a rush to get to work so I grabbed my temporary paper license without looking, hopped in my car, and headed to work. When I got to work and finally looked at the photo, I could hardly process it. There was this plump, fat, tired woman staring back at me, and when I realized it was me, I lost control. I felt weak, and I locked myself in the bathroom. You see, another tool that I’ve relied upon for self preservation has been dissociating the me I see in the mirror with the me that I see in my head. I paint an image in my mind far superior to the one I present, and it helps me feel more confident. But every once in awhile a shiny surface reminds me that the outside just isn’t as great as I’m pretending it is, and I am deflated. Looking at my license photo, I was confronted with the hard truth that that was what I really looked like. And I hated her.
I could go on forever about the bad days, because there are many of them. I used to dwell on them far too much. I’ve been through the gamut when it comes to weight loss ideas, making drastic but short lived changes, embracing absurdly overzealous workout plans and fad diets. I’ve even, in moments of desperation, vowed to starve myself for x number of days or until I get to x weight. (But don’t worry- I always get too hungry and eat. Like three hours after I start.)
One thing that’s been consistent with all my ridiculous weight loss attempts has been self- loathing. I’ve always thought that I needed to punish and criticize myself into being healthier. That i should surround myself with images of prettier women and chastise myself for not being them. That staring at myself in the mirror, pointing out every problem area, teasing and attacking my own image, would inspire me to be healthier. That I had to hate myself into losing weight.
What I’m slowly realizing, though, is that it is the exact opposite. I have to learn to love my body first in order to make a change.
This summer has been an experiment in body positivity. In the beginning of the summer, I made a promise to myself to be brave and not turn opportunities down because of how I felt about my looks. I decided I was going to start trying to look PAST all of the flaws and start looking FOR all of the beauty that my friends and family tell me they see in me. That I was going to search beyond my faults and instead admire all of the wonderful things that my body enables me to do. So far, it’s been a slow and steady process. And it’s been amazing, and rewarding, and awesome, but man, it has not been without struggle.
I made a couple of changes to help me along the way. The first, and one that may sound strange but that really impacted me, was that I began to follow body positivity pages on instagram. There’s this movement called #effyourbeautystandards, created by plus sized model Tess Holliday, that showcases beauty in every size shape and form. Through that account I found some of my now favorite plus sized models, like Ashley Graham (who recently shot the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover- you go girl!) Gabi Fresh, and Dana Martinez. It may sound silly to say that following these instagram pages changed my life, but following these instagram pages changed my life. You see, society has always taught me to scoff at a large woman showcasing her body- that fat girls can’t wear bikinis or crop tops, that to be heavy and wear something tight or form fitting is obscene. I’ve watched with my own eyes as people laugh and point, and even take offense at the pure sight of someone who is overweight. Think what a lifetime of watching that does to a fat girl’s image of herself. As I said earlier, one part of my body that I have always taken pride in has been my curves. I love them, and there are definitely days when I DO feel sexy. But I can’t tell you how many times I’ve second guessed an outfit because it felt like I was “trying too hard” to be pretty, or because wearing something as simple as a fitted tee shirt over my big boobs made me feel hyper sexualized.
But following these pages changed me because all of the sudden, I was seeing beautiful, confident, powerful plus sized women on the daily. We get such a narrow, streamlined image of beauty in popular media, and it was really refreshing and inspiring to break from that limiting, unachievable norm. At first I was honestly a bit stuck in my opinions, thinking things like, “I wouldn’t wear that, it’s not flattering, she needs to hide her tummy.” But slowly, my thought patterns began to change and I began to see the freedom and beauty of embracing a larger body. I began to rethink all of the age old rules I had learned about dressing my body, and took some fashion risks that I never would have dreamed of a few years ago. Many of you know my struggle with bathing suits, and how last summer I was able to embrace one for the first time in about five years. And when I shared this online, I did so to thunderous applause from my loved ones, and even from strangers. I started wearing crop tops last year. Sounds stupid, was hugely important. I remember how petrified I was the first time I wore one around my friends, that they would look at me and think it was disgusting and point out my pale, thick midsection and ask what I was wearing in disdain. But no one said a thing. Now they are one of my favorite things to wear. I get home from work and change into high waisted shorts and a crop top to lounge around my house, because it makes me feel liberated from my body shame. And because it makes me feel sexy AF, and I deserve that. Now I like taking risks, showing off a little more skin. I’m beginning to actually feel some of the confidence that I have faked for so long.
Of course I still want to improve, to be healthier and stronger. Healthy eating and exercise habits is still something I have little grasp of, and I want to learn. And that want is a good thing. But a healthy body starts with a healthy mind, and healthy thinking. I’m realizing that if I want to take these steps, the most crucial step is to first accept and embrace myself, as I am, in this moment.
Now that I’m beginning to embrace my body, my life feels a lot more open. I feel a little bit more in control, and that’s a hard feeling to come by, especially when you’re a twenty something floating through life looking for anchors to this crazy world. It doesn’t hurt that I have amazing family and friends who always take the time to shower me with love, compliments, and support. But you really do have to start from the inside.
I wish I had chosen to love my body a bit earlier, but I guess it’s better late than never. I wish I had realized how much it allows me to do rather than dwelling on the clothes it won’t fit in. Don’t get me wrong- It’s still a daily challenge, and there will still be plenty of days where I succumb to my insecurities and feel like a goddamn sausage, days where I’m afraid to leave my room because I don’t feel pretty enough, days where I’m in a beautiful setting, surrounded by beautiful friends, and all I want to do is run and hide and be alone. The beach never seems to get much easier- stripping down to my swimsuit will forever make me feel some type of way- but I just don’t want to miss out anymore. I can’t miss out anymore.
Here’s to not letting a little chub get the best of me. Here’s to crop tops, and muffin tops, and two pieces. Here’s to loving my way into the best version of myself. Fat and cute, curvy and adventurous, big and proud. But most of all, hugely grateful.
(This blog is the joint effort of me and my best friend/fellow blogger Rivka! Go check out her site and treat yourself to some powerful writing over at http://therivetinglife.com/)
Do you ever experience this nagging feeling, like this life you live needs to mean something? Our generation has been categorized as the ones who are always looking for the “more”. Personally for us, we sometimes get bogged down because its difficult to imagine that anything we do will have meaning or leave a legacy on the world. My (Rivka’s) dad found a cure for cancer. My (Sarah’s) dad worked for a nonprofit for children. My (Sarah’s) brother has developed a useful app that already has a million users. What the H have we accomplished?!
But what we’ve come to realize is that there is purpose and power in the little things. It’s stopping to talk to the old lady in line. It’s remembering that your coworker had a healthcare issue and following up. Its being present. It’s giving your roommate a hug after they’ve had a long day. Sometimes the things that make the biggest impact on this world are the simplest.
We were reminiscing on the adults in our lives who took the time to listen to us, hug us, and cheer us on. Their praises, their high fives, and love have carried on with through our years and will forever be imprinted on our hearts. We would love to take a moment to say thanks these trailblazers, who just in the little things have made a life long impact.
Rivka: Mrs. G and the entire AB counseling staff. The words thank you do not even seem enough for the impact you have had on me. Thank you a million times over for letting this confused, over emotional teenager wander into your office and never turned her away. A lot of who I am is directly correlated to each of you. Thank you.
Sarah: Mrs. Casavant. I will never forget the day in 4th grade when I got teased at recess for being fat, and you found me crying in a ball on the pavement. You unraveled me, hugged me, and invited me inside for some one on one time. The next day you gave me a note that had a list of 10 reasons that I was an awesome kid. You have no idea how many times I read that list over when I was feeling down. Thank you.
R: Mrs. Roadman. Thank you for recognizing my need for just an ear. It was my 8th school and we had just moved from NJ and MA. I was an awkward 7th grader just trying to find my way in the world. You would let me come into your room at lunch and after school and let me talk about everything I was dealing with. My life seemed to be constantly changing and somehow you remained a constant. Thank you.
S: Jimmy and Wendy. The Boys and Girls club raised me, there’s no other way to say it. So many years were spent with you guys after school every day. You were the coolest big brother and big sister an awkward, insecure, emotional little preteen girl could have. I felt like I could talk to you guys about anything, and so many times I did, as you helped me navigate through crushes and friend drama and identity crises and family issues.
R: Thank you. Emily, Ashley, Susan and Kristi. You opened your homes to me. You survived through marathons of 16 & Pregnant and Jersey Shore. You stuck with me through my delusional boy crushes; no matter how unrequited. You were present. You challenged me and asked me why. Age was nothing and although I was just an awkward high schooler, you were the big sisters I needed.
S: Thank you. Mrs. Anthony. When the first day of your freshman honors English class, I thought you were the scariest teacher I’d ever seen. You were strict and demanding and covered my papers in green ink (not a good thing). One day in the middle of the year you scrapped the agenda and told us we were going to focus on building community. We spent an entire week getting to know each other better, talking about our fears and dreams and learning how to love and support each other as classmates and as humans. You taught me to always, always prioritize people and relationships first. Thank you.
And perhaps the biggest thank you of all goes out to our second moms and dads. We’ve each been blessed with a great set of parents who have always taught us is to have to an “open door” policy. What that means is that our doors, our fridge, and our couches, are open to anyone who needs it. The flow of people in and out made both of our households busy and loud and full of laughter. And we have somehow been lucky enough to stumble into friend groups with families who also love us in just as wholehearted a way. You always accepted us into your homes with smiles and hugs, no matter how much of your cinnamon raisin toast we ate, how loud we were at 2am, or how many times you woke up to extra bodies on floors and couches. You consoled us when we were sad, gave us a good talking to whenever we messed up (which, let’s face it, was a lot), and celebrated with us when things were going well. How beautiful it is to have family all over. Thank you.
We could sit here all day writing thank you notes to the people that have been there for us, because there are so many. But let’s be honest, they deserve novels, not notes. For some, we still have time to show them our supreme gratitude (and we should get in the practice of that- of saying thank you in the NOW to those that guide us). But for others, lost in our past, we may never get a chance. And so the best way to say thank you, is to pay it forward.
Here we are, twenty somethings navigating through this uncertain world, looking for something to claim and call ours, an accomplishment to feel proud of, an impact, a legacy to leave on this world, and the answer is more simple than we could ever know. It’s in our daily interactions. It’s in the love, care and support we put into the people around us. It’s in the hellos, the how are yous, the hugs. Thank you, to all of our parents and coaches and teachers and caregivers, for teaching us the most valuable, impactful lesson: the little things are the big things.
Author’s note: I wrote this blog in 2016 with the intention of bringing other white folks into the conversation about BLM. In the years since then, I have been blessed to continue to learn from black activists, artists, and educators. Looking back at this article, so many parts jump out as problematic, and make me absolutely cringe- the title for one (YIKES), the fact I say I am not anti-police (#abolishthepolice), etc. But I think it’s important to leave this here as it is, and to take accountability for the fact that parts of this are harmful, that intent doesn’t always match impact, and that I am a work in progress and do plenty of fucking up in those efforts of making progress.
When I was in seventh grade, I could be characterized as a slightly insecure, goofy ball of hormones and emotions. I was freshly a teenager and desperately trying to figure out who I was and who I wanted to be. And so I did something most young kids do when looking for answers- I looked to my heroes for guidance.
At 13, I had a couple of people I idolized. There was of course the boy bands and athletes, but I had two central figures that I looked up to. The first was my grandpa, or Pop Pop as we call him. Pop pop was the police captain in East Haven, CT. Visits to him always included fun rides in his cop car, listening to calls over the radio and begging him to say my name over the loudspeaker. He was the most important and special man I knew. I was in awe of his uniform and enraptured by his stories. Sometimes the stories were very scary, though. I’m sure he kept the scariest ones from us kids, but even with what we knew it was clear that he was in a position of great power, but great risk as well. I loved my Pop Pop more than anything and I prayed for him each night.
My other hero came to me as I began to discover one of my first true passions. As a preteen, I fell head over heels in love with music, particularly hip hop and rap. I would sit on the busride to school with my giant headphones on, melting into the rhythms and beats, floating on the melodies, and listening as the most beautiful poetry I’d ever heard dripped into my ears. I felt like I had discovered this whole other world I had never known existed, this second side of reality, so much different from the one I was being taught about at school. One rife with pain and struggle and tension, one they told me had ended years ago in history class. The figurehead of this realization and changing world view was Tupac Shakur. I remember the first time I heard “Ghetto Gospel,” I was completely captivated. I listened to it on repeat until I knew every word. Tupac was my teacher, my idol, my second biggest clue into what kind of person I wanted to be, after my Pop Pop of course.
And so when I heard the iconic “Changes,” by Tupac (which remains one of the most important songs to ever grace my life), I was knocked on my ass. Partly because the sheer power and emotion of the song, but partly because it said something that really troubled me: “Cops give a damn about a negro, pull the trigga kill a n**** he’s a hero.” But..what did he mean? Pop pop would never do that! What was he saying? And all of the sudden, my two heroes, the most idolized figures in my young life, were placed at dangerous odds.
And how could I pick a side? Both felt deserving of my loyalty, focus, and praise. I watched my Pop Pop put his life at risk each time he responded to a call, felt his dedication to protect and serve, saw his selflessness in how he loved on me and my brothers. And yet I heard the truth in Tupac’s words, heard them echoed across all of hip hop music, could feel his resilience and vigor, ached for his martyrdom, felt the urgent call to do something about it. Both captured my mind and pulsed in my heart. How could I support both if they were seen by so many as enemies?
It has taken education and work, but what I now realize is that supporting two things that come into contention is possible. Not only is it possible, it is vitally important. We are in a very divisive and polarizing episode of humanity right now. When a statement is made, the visceral reaction seems to be to become defensive, reactive, and dismissive. And so we are shutting things down without taking even a moment to attempt to understand them. In this, we are losing the richness of the conversation that follows. This type of behavior is leading to massive misunderstandings.
*(It’s important to note that when I say we, I am largely speaking to my white audience. We have something called privilege that allows us to pick and choose when to engage in these conversations surrounding race, rather than have them forced upon us. If white privilege is a concept you are unfamiliar with or struggle to acknowledge, see https://www.deanza.edu/faculty/lewisjulie/White%20Priviledge%20Unpacking%20the%20Invisible%20Knapsack.pdf for a quick intro to the subject and please reach out to me if you would like to discuss it further.)
It’s a bold undertaking, and I obviously can’t begin to address all of the complexities of this in one short blog post, but I would like to attempt to break down some vital, central ideas that are being grossly misunderstood at the moment.
I AM NOT ANTI POLICE. I AM ANTI POLICE BRUTALITY.
There is a problem in this country with police brutality, specifically that aimed at people of color. This problem is not new. Almost 25 years ago Rodney King was beaten to a pulp by 4 police officers while the world watched. Last week Alton Sterling was shot and killed by police officers while the world watched. When someone makes a mistake or abuses their power, (it feels belittling to even call a murder a “mistake”), they need to be held accountable. When there is a continual problem in a system, it must be addressed. To acknowledge that there is a problem within the system does not equate to blaming every individual, or being vehemently against the institute. When I say that there is a massive problem with our criminal justice system, people somehow hear that as me saying “All police officers and judges are bad and giant racists.” Why are we hearing that? That is not at all what I’m saying. I’m saying that there is an issue with how the system works. The system has historically, disproportionately targeted/attacked/imprisoned/killed people of color. (Again, if you seek facts and figures to help you understand/believe points I make, please reach out and I will provide them. A great read in reference to this statement is “The New Jim Crow” by Michelle Alexander.)
Think for a second about the Catholic church sexual abuse scandal. I use this comparison because it’s another case of people using a position of power to abuse. What was brought to light was disturbing and upsetting. When I express my disgust and anger about that, proclaim that there is a problem with the institution of religion, and demand that changes be made within the Catholic church, I am not attacking all Catholics. I am not saying that they are horrible people and that church is ruined beyond repair. I myself am Catholic, as are many of the people I love. I am saying that even things with the best intentions have the ability to be corrupted. I am recognizing a problem and a pattern and condemning it. I am asking for accountability and for change, and expecting the church to take responsibility, acknowledge these issues, and make changes to right the wrongs.
I am asking the same thing from police, from our criminal justice system. When I passionately rally against police brutality, I am not rallying against police. I am just asking them to acknowledge a problem, hold their own accountable, and take measures to address and fix the issues.
Caring about black lives and caring about police officers’ lives are not mutually exclusive, the two things can be true at the same time. For some reason, people really struggle with this concept. Which leads to my next point:
BLACK LIVES MATTER DOES NOT MEAN THAT ALL LIVES DO NOT.
This collection of images, videos and excerpts does a pretty incredible job of explaining this point.
However, if you would like it from my voice, here it is:
Black Lives Matter (BLM) is about focus, not exclusion. The implicit meaning behind “black lives matter” is simply, “Black lives matter, too.” TOO. As well. In addition to. For some reason, many audiences hear “black lives matter” as “black lives matter more,” or “black lives matter only”. That is not what the movement is saying. The BLM movement was borne in response to the continual discrimination, stereotyping, racial profiling, blatant acts of violence and racism, and brutalizing and killing of black people at the hands of both individuals and state institutions. In response to hundreds of years of black lives being enslaved, ridiculed, attacked, devalued, and deemed as “less than.” There is a need to say “black lives matter” because they have been historically shown that they don’t. The BLM movement asks for black lives to finally be seen as equal to. Duh all lives matter, we all know that, black people just want to see that theirs do too!
It’s interesting to me that people are quick to get defensive, angry and critical without even attempting to educate themselves on or understand the movement. A quick glance at the “About” section of the BLM website affirms that this is not a message of division or dominance, but of black liberation in the face of oppression:
“When we say Black Lives Matter, we are broadening the conversation around state violence to include all of the ways in which Black people are intentionally left powerless at the hands of the state. We are talking about the ways in which Black lives are deprived of our basic human rights and dignity.”
A good comparison is how many people seem to struggle in a similar way with the word and idea of “feminism”. The biggest critics of this movement see feminism as a direct attack on men, threatening their rights and power. However, that is wildly untrue. Feminism means only the want and demand for EQUALITY. It’s called “feminism” because those rights have been routinely denied to women, not men. In the same way that feminism calls for equal rights, BLM does not demand dominance, but simply equal power.
WHEN YOU SAY “ALL LIVES MATTER,” YOU ARE ADDING TO THE PROBLEM.
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Saying this negates the battle of black lives for equality. It’s like walking into the doctor’s office with a broken arm and him proclaiming, “all bones matter!” Sure, of course, we know they all matter! But by saying that you are ignoring that there is a specific problem that currently needs addressing.
By saying “All lives matter” you are ignoring the pressing issue and thus perpetuating in the continuation of that problem and that pain. Saying “all lives matter” in direct response to “black lives matter” only serves to ignore the issue and dismiss the very specific problems that the phrase attempts to draw attention to.
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We live in a very polarizing time. The current state of the American two party political system is a great example of how American society encourages extremes and opposites rather than compromise and mutual understanding. (Is this because extremes are easier to digest and understand, and we are too lazy to do the work it takes to understand the middle ground?) We, the American public, seem to be in this strange place where we feel that if we support one thing, we are inherently condemning all other things. When I say I love chocolate ice cream it doesn’t mean I hate vanilla; when I say I support the Red Sox it doesn’t mean I hate the Pirates- why are we interpreting political and social statements with the same outrageous defensiveness, jumping to inane conclusions?
But furthermore than that, what does our defensiveness say? Again, I’m speaking specifically to my white peers. Why are we so quick to deny race issues? Why do we do everything we can to justify black death and condemn black reactionary pain, yet in the same breath go to great lengths to protect and glorify white life and empathize with white sin?
(Quick sidenote on that point- Take a second and think about how when Brock Turner was convicted of rape, articles chose handsome pictures of him dressed up and lamented his potential, highlighting his great student athlete records. About how Dylan Roof was calmly taken into custody and bought Burger King after shooting 9 black people in a church. Now think about how when innocent black men are killed, their mugshot is printed along with a list of any past criminal offenses, as if past mistakes somehow justify an untimely and unlawful death.)
Is this defensiveness perhaps because the deeply uncomfortable truth is that we are in the wrong? Is it because acknowledging that there is a major problem with racism in America might pose a threat to our blissful ignorance, our comfortable seat of power? As Civil Rights Activist Shaun King said last year, “If you ever wondered who you would be or what you would do if you lived during the Civil Rights Movement, stop. You are living in that time, RIGHT NOW.”
And so I come to you at 24 years old with my two heroes still fully intact. On one hand, I have Tupac. A revolutionary, a poet, an activist, a martyr for civil rights. A preacher sharing the ugly truth, a voice for a voiceless. A recognition of a broken system and a call for reform. And on the other hand, Pop Pop. A selfless, sacrificing man, unmatched work ethic, a leader of his community, memories of hugs and smiles and summers swimming at the lake. A good man, a loving man, the greatest grandfather. A now-retired police captain, a part of the flawed system, but a piece working to make the whole better.
I can and I do love and support the message of both of my heroes- a call for equality, and a call for justice. And so I stand before you and loudly proclaim “BLACK LIVES MATTER,” because it is calling for both.
This is the most difficult thing I’ve ever written, but also maybe the most important thing I’ve ever written. 1 in 5 women and 1 in 16 men are sexually assaulted during their college years. 1 in 5 women and 1 in 71 men are raped during their lifetime. 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys are sexually abused before reaching the age of 18. This may be my personal story, but it’s also a communal story, one that so many of us are hurting to tell.
Sexual assault doesn’t always look like you would expect it to. Yes, it can be someone grabbing, forcing, threatening and hurting. A scary stranger from a party or in a dark alleyway, a villain. But more often than not, it’s a friend, a classmate, a significant other, manipulative and coercive, no hard force necessary. Sometimes the threat isn’t made outright but instead felt. Sometimes there is no violence, just fear. Sometimes it’s someone you know, you love, that you’re attracted to, that you’ve hooked up with before. No matter who it is, or how they do it, when someone makes you feel like you are being stripped of the right to choose- that is sexual assault. When you are afraid of what might happen if you tell them no- that is sexual assault.
The first time I was sexually assaulted was in my sophomore year of college.
Before I go any further, I need to say something about that terminology. It took me a long time to come to be able to use those words: sexually assaulted. They feel so permanent and binding, almost dehumanizing. They made me feel like part of the statistics, stripped of my autonomy and power. It took me a long while to realize that it was not these words that were making me feel helpless and bitter- it was the reality of what had happened to me.
Back to my sophomore year of college. After a long night, I found myself sitting in the middle of campus, on a bench outside of the library, crying. I was in a pretty vulnerable state and feeling a little bit in need of saving. So when a handsome boy approached and asked if I was okay and what I was crying about, I began to engage with him. He was kind and respectful, offering up words of encouragement and embarrassing stories of his own in an effort to make mine feel less huge. Soon I had stopped crying, and when I thanked him and began to gather myself to go home, he offered to walk me back to my dorm. I was touched- what a gentleman- and said yes, please. I felt like this stranger was my knight in shining armor, saving my disastrous night and reviving my belief that good men do exist.
I know a lot of you are reading this and already thinking to yourself, “You’re letting him walk you home? Alone? Oh, what an idiot! There are so many red flags!” You need to stop that right now. I’m serious, if you’re gonna do that this whole time, then please stop reading this. I’m sharing something that is very difficult for me. Please don’t berate me and shame me. Please don’t lecture me about how it would have been avoidable IF this and that, (as if I haven’t spent hours already doing that myself). Please don’t get frustrated or disappointed in me for assuming that a fellow human being means well and has good intentions. I am not the one at fault.
As he walked me back to my dorm he continued to offer up kind words. I had been upset about an interaction with another guy, and he actually began to talk to me about his little sister. About how important she was to him, and about how it makes him sick to think of her growing up in a world where men mistreat women. Oh, he was laying it on thick, and I was eating it up. It felt like he was on my side, like he totally understood what I was saying, preaching right to the choir. When he reached out to hold my hand, I didn’t even think of it as anything more than platonic, protective, brotherly.
When we reached my dorm, he asked if he could come in and use the bathroom before he walked back to his dorm. Of course you can, kind man who has done nothing but help me stop crying and rebuild my self confidence, it’s the least I can do! (Again, stop with the judgment and think about how you might feel inclined to think well of a stranger that goes out of their way to do something seemingly altruistic for you). After he used the bathroom, he asked for a glass of water. When he asked for water, a very, very tiny little piece of me perked up and wondered why he was lingering. But the rest of me quickly ignored that minor worry, outweighing it with all the goodness he had shown.
But then something unexpected happened. He kissed me. And at first, I kissed him back. He was so sweet, and attractive, and older than me, and my visceral reaction was, yeah, this is the kind of guy I wanna kiss. It took me a moment to realize how incredibly overwhelmed I was. When the present came back into focus, I began to remember how unstable I was feeling, and that this was not what I wanted or could handle right now. And so I stopped.
He tried to kiss me again, and I turned away. When he tried a third time, and I gave him cheek, I felt his body grow a bit rigid, angry. I sat down and told him I was going to go to bed. Out of nowhere, in an instant, he changed. Upset that I had turned down his advances, he began to call me names. All of the sudden he was verbally attacking me, wrapping me in words I didn’t want to wear. The energy in the room grew threatening as he called me a “whore” and a “slut,” and I began to cry. And the weirdest thing happened when I cried- he attempted to comfort me. Just like that the “gentleman” was back, apologizing and telling me he didn’t mean it. The temporary break in the tension allowed me enough stability to calm down and stop my crying. But as soon as I stopped crying, he switched again, Jekyll and Hyde, and tried again to kiss and touch me, his hand on my thigh. I turned away and the names returned, but this time he called me a “prude” and a “tease”. As I continued to turn him away, he did not budge. Instead, he began to barter with me, demanding “just a kiss” or to “just cuddle,” promising he wouldn’t try anything else.
In hindsight, it seems so simple to resolve. I was in the common room of my suite. My roommates were sleeping all around me. My best guy friends, who happened to by rugby players, were in the suite down the hall. I could have yelled, I could have ran, I could have picked up my phone and called someone.
But it just wasn’t that easy. I was so overwhelmed and discombobulated. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally, I was fragile and vulnerable, insecure and alone. And most importantly, there was a pressing sense of danger. There was fear. It’s very hard to reason with fear- you lose the ability to think rationally when you are afraid. It will be hard for you to understand until life puts you in a similar situation.
And so the only way I knew how to safely get him out was to let him in. It’s hard to explain properly, but saying no felt too dangerous. The way he had reacted when I turned away from his kisses had frightened me. Sometimes people say nothing at all, or even concede a “yes,” as a way to protect themselves from the “what if” and confrontation of saying no. I felt like if I just gave him something he wanted he would leave me alone and it would all be over. And so he spent the night. I didn’t have sex with him, but his hands were on my body, and I felt helpless. After he fell asleep I laid in bed, unable to sleep. After a few hours of staring numbly at the ceiling, I got up and took a shower, trying to wash all traces of him off of my ruined body. The water didn’t make me feel any cleaner.
After my shower, I sat in my common room trying to process. More staring at more blank walls, more numbness. When my roommate finally woke up she came and found me and asked about the naked boy asleep in my bed, smirking at me, excited to hear about my fun hookup. I began to cry on the spot, hard, choking tears. She comforted me and even kicked him out for me while I hid in our friends room, because I was too frozen, too scared to face him again.
And that was that. I buried it, hardly told anyone or talked about it. I wanted it not to exist. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal.
But it was, and it began to trickle out. The following weekend I was hanging with friends and got a little drunk and showed off some of my bruises. (Yeah, he had left some pretty vicious bruises on my chest.) What might have seemed to the naked eye like a drunk girl begging for attention and showing off her sexual conquests was in actuality a desperate girl crying for help, showing her friends that she had been hurt. Lucky for me, some of my friends saw through my antics and recognized what was really going on. They tried to be there for me, asked what happened and what they could do, but all I would really give them was that some jerk had taken advantage of me and that it was fine. I was unwilling to call it what it was, even with my friends by my side.
I mostly “forgot” about the whole ordeal after that. Well, except for the days when I would see him on campus. Walking by him wasn’t too bad, at least it was quick. The hardest was when he would be at a dining hall I was eating at. I couldn’t really just get up and leave dinner and my friends without an explanation, so I’d usually just sit there, a little bit paralyzed, unable to exhale until he was gone.
It sucks how much power these people take from you, hold over you.
After awhile I stopped seeing him as much and began to feel a lot better. In fact, I figured I was over it. Isn’t it funny how we rush ourselves and lie and pretend we’re over things? When one night the following summer I found myself in a puddle of tears on my friends’ bathroom floor recounting the experience, I realized that I was still hurting from it. But sharing it with a best friend on tear-flooded bathroom tiles made me feel a lot better. Okay, NOW I had gotten it all out, NOW I was over it!
But I’m learning something about these experiences- we don’t really ever get “over” them. Don’t get me wrong- these events do not have to define us or hold us back. With the right support system, and lots of time, many of us are able to begin to heal, grow stronger, and move on. But these events do color the way we see the world. And even when we have moved forward, and feel healthy and distant from that state, things can happen that make us regress back to those feelings, whether for a moment or for awhile.
I know that the word “triggered” has come to be a bit of a punchline these days. I know that it is often overused and that people are hesitant to buy into it, seeing it as too sensitive and coddling. I wish this word didn’t have so much baggage attached to it, because it really is the best way for me to describe what those moments are like when I get pulled back into the fear of being sexually assaulted. Just the other day, I was getting dressed and noticed a few bruises on my chest. All of the sudden I found myself sitting on my bed and crying, right back in that moment where I first looked at the damage he had done. That was almost 5 years ago. And yet there I was again, without explanation. It’s not like I haven’t gotten bruises since, too! But something just stole me from the moment and took me back to that scared feeling.
Since this happened to me, I’ve unfortunately dealt with much worse. And just as it has taken me years to digest and discuss this first and more minor experience, my other experience has spent much more time hidden in the back of my mind than it has being spoken about, processed, or dealt with. Just over a year later, while travelling abroad, I experienced one of the harder nights of my life. In classic post-traumatic fashion, after it happened I quickly buried the pain and instead twisted into a humorous story about a drunk night out. I’m sure plenty of my friends are familiar with the story of my night in Buenos Aires where I took a cab home without any money, dropped my house key down the elevator shaft, and fell asleep outside of my host mom’s door. I bet most of them never realized that this was on the tail end of getting taken advantage of by two foreign men in an alleyway while I was blackout drunk. I came to when police showed up- not to save me, but to point and laugh at me. The journey home was traumatizing in and of itself, as I tried to figure out where I was and how to get home with no money or underwear.
Victims of rape and sexual assault often get chastised for not telling someone right away, or for the fact that their story may change over time. People see this as a sign of falsity or dramatics, and fail to see how it is a side effect of undergoing a traumatic experience. It is very difficult to share the stories of your worst days, of the most difficult things you’ve been through. Add to that the fear of being seen as weak, foolish, or at fault.
And so our survivor stories can take years to comprehend and construct, changing and growing as we process the effects of what has happened to us, as we regain our comfort and feeling of safety.
Remember how earlier I said it took me a long time to identify with the words “sexually assaulted”? Imagine how much bigger of a battle I went through with the word “rape”. Typing it now makes my eyes cloudy. It’s been three years and I still go back and forth, arguing to myself whether it was or wasn’t. For the longest time I didn’t think it was fair of me to claim that word. First of all, the fact that I was so drunk made me feel completely responsible. If I didn’t know whether or not I said yes or no, how could I claim any foul play? And secondly, wouldn’t calling it rape be an incredible insult to all the people who’ve been fully conscious and comprehending during their attacks? I was unconscious for most of my assault, too drunk to have clear memories of what was done to me in that alleyway. I have hazy memories, haunting details, but nothing compared to the nightmarish visions that so many men and women have to relive over and over again. I escaped relatively unscathed, right?
But I didn’t. Once again my experience followed me, and manifested itself in some really ugly ways. Friends struggled to understand, and I struggled to explain, why certain events and actions would evoke such intense reactions from me. It’s something I’m still working on.
But what has helped me, what always helps, is hearing from other people that I am not alone. That I am not wrong. I remember the first time I read the sentence “You can’t consent when you’re drunk,” in an article online, I just started sobbing, uncontrollably. I felt this intense wave of relief, this immense joy that someone out there in the world was on my side, believed that it was not my fault. The more I researched and read, the more I found people who understood, and were sticking up for me. And then when I was finally able to open up to a few friends, (just this past fall), and was met with unconditional love, I felt so much lighter, a bit liberated from the weight.
I’m still trying to convince myself that sharing this is a good idea. I had a lot of anxieties when choosing to write this. Will this create a negative paper trail for my future? Is this something a potential employer could read and disagree with, deem me unfit for a job, question my abilities and strengths? Will my friends or family look at me and treat me differently? Will little seeds of distaste or judgement plant themselves in their minds and color their opinion of me? Will this information hurt my loved ones too much? Will it offend them? I shared this with my parents and brothers before publishing it, because I felt I owed them the space to process the story first. It was really fucking difficult. I hate bringing them pain. I don’t want them to ever think any of this is something they could have saved me from. On the contrary, I have the most amazing support system; they’ve loved me so powerfully that I’m able to find the strength to finally share.
The reason I chose to publish this is because it embodies the very reason I write. I write to process, to feel more connected to the world as it moves around me, to feel less alone. I write because there is nothing more magical or healing to me than taking something that makes me feel other, isolated, alone, and sharing it, and having someone else say “me too”. Far too often we sit with our pain and think that if we talk about, we will be pushed further away from the love and understanding we seek. But the truth is that so many of us are fighting the same demons as the person right beside us, we just don’t realize it. We need to stop fighting in silence and reclaim the value of vulnerability.
And so I offer my story to you in hopes that you will look around you, at all the people that you’re lucky enough to love and be loved by, and realize that many, many of them have been through similar pain. And that if we start to talk about it, to tell our stories, to listen without judgement, then we can fight this battle together instead of alone. I, Sarah Laughlin, at 23 years old, have been the victim, and the survivor, of rape and sexual assault.But this story is not my weakness- it is my strength.
Whether you’re celebratin’ or hatin’ today, there’s one thing we can all agree on- Valentine’s Day is about LOVE. Those who know me well (let’s be honest, those who know me even in the slightest) know that I am quick to love, and that I love abundantly. These are traits that have remained prominent in my life since I was a young girl. I didn’t quite have a “first love”, per-say, but rather a collection of things I fell for at a very early age. Among these were Simba from the Lion King, the Red Sox, and my first grade classmate Randy Patterson. Well, Randy moved before the end of 2nd grade, Simba was a cartoon (and a lion), and the Red Sox were wonderful but my love never quite felt returned. Somewhere along the way to adulthood, I began to discover that true love could only be accomplished when you were being fully loved back.
And that’s where hip hop came into the picture. From the moment I discovered it, I was hooked. While my peers were watching Saturday cartoons, I would wait for my mom to go run errands so that I could sneak into her room and watch 106 & Park. (I wasn’t allowed to watch MTV or BET, so I had to do it on the sly). I became completely enraptured with the stories hip hop told, and even more so, the truths that it spoke. I felt like there was this whole side of life, vibrant and honest and poignant, that I had never known before. I began to fall head over heels in love with the way the rhythms caressed me, how the lyrics nourished me, how the bassline and my heart beat seemed to combine into one steady undercurrent, guiding me through my days. And unlike Simba or Nomar or Randy, hip hop loved me back. It made me feel protected and understood, but also encouraged me to be my own person. It gave me community, nurtured my creativity, and made me smile on the daily. It educated me, inspired me, compelled me, empowered me- it did all the things love is supposed to do. It loved me back.
Now, age 23, I’m still the queen of unrequited love, but hip hop remains a romantic centerpiece of my life. I know a lot of you are sitting there thinking, really? You’re tryna tell me that HIP HOP is ROMANTIC? *cue middle aged white person voice* That crass, sexist, drug and violence glorifying THUG music?! Well first off, that way of thinking is ignorant, misguided and thinly veiled racism, so stop. But secondly, listen up. America is ripe with a toxic sense of masculinity, that teaches men that being vulnerable will emasculate them and take away their identity and power. In hip hop culture in particular, (for a myriad of reasons that I’ll tackle in another post someday), masculinity is even more exaggerated and especially threatening, as being emotive and vulnerable can quite literally put your safety at risk. And so in my eyes, hip hop songs about love are even more powerful than your average ballad because to share your feelings in hip hop culture is especially courageous. There’s more at risk, and what’s more romantic than sacrifice?
And so, without further ado, my 2016 Valentine’s day playlist: Hip Hop & Love.
THE CLASSICS: These are the OG urban love songs, delivered by some of the founding fathers of hip hop. The undeniable, universally respected and adored odes to love that some of us youngins out there were probably conceived to.
1) The Light- Common
Best lyric: “But that’s fly by night for you and the sky I write/ For in these cold Chi night’s moon, you my light/ If heaven had a height you would be that tall”
It’s only fitting to start with one of my all time favorite rappers, and one of my all time favorite love songs. This song is universally hailed as perhaps the essential hip hop love song, and it should be for having one of the best beats of all time (shout out and RIP to the legendary J Dilla) and being a diamond of modern poetry. The song is framed as a letter to Common’s lover, and each line drips with sincere love and respect. It’s the kind of love letter every woman wants to receive.
2) Bonita Applebum- A Tribe Called Quest
Best lyric: “If only you could see through your elaborate eyes/ Only you and me, hun, the love never dies”
Okay so I know this song is very blatantly an ode to a woman with a big ol booty. Not particularly nuanced or romantic, and yet it holds a spot on this playlist because it opens with a valid question: “Do I love you? Do I lust for you? Am I sinner because I do the two?” This one’s for that lusty love, because the two often mix and can mutually exist. Also props to Q Tip for sneakily referring to condoms a “prophylactics”. It’s all in the wording.
3) You’re all I need- Method Man ft. Mary J Blige
Best lyric: “Back when I was nothing/ You made a brother feel like he was something…Even when the skies were gray/ you would rub me on my back and say baby it’ll be okay/ Now that’s real to a brother like me baby”
Method Man and Miss Mary J Blige, can it get any better? Mary is the queen and absolutely slays on this track, providing a silky and soulful background that highlights Method Man’s genuine sentiments. This is a powerful love song, but what sets it apart is this almost haunting sense of urgency and necessity. The song samples Biggie’s infamous line, “Lie together, cry together, I swear to god I hope we fuckin die together,” and you can feel that this love is grounded in something substantial. This ain’t no puppy love, this is life and death love.
4) Eye Know- De La Soul
Best lyric: “Let me lay my hand across yours and aim a kiss upon your cheek.”
This is such a lovely, calming, upbeat ode to love. De La Soul is known for their eclectic samples, conscious lyrics, and jazzy vibes. They do not disappoint in “Eye Know,” sampling Steely Dan and verbally caressing the women they are pursuing with charisma and respect. Also can we just talk about the video for a second? Because it is everything. It’s missing Dove’s last verse which is a bummer, but besides that it’s golden. You can’t not smile while watching it. Pure funk groove good vibes city.
5) What’s on your Mind- Eric B. and Rakim
Best lyric: Now how does it feel/ When my mental, massage ya temple/ Telephone’s hot from the vibes that I sent you/ Now tell me your inner thoughts and deepest emotions/ Next you see ecstacy’s explosions”
Rakim spits truth over cool beats, slowly chipping away at the icy exterior of a beautiful woman he meets on the subway. At first she’s uppity and standoffish, but Rakim doesn’t give up that easily. He puts in the work and teaches this woman that “when you hide your feelings, they’re hard to find.”This song is a good reminder to lovers everywhere to stop with the games and speak their mind, because love is built on trust and communication.
THE PURSUIT: These are the songs for when you’re starting to feel something and tryna figure out how to win them over. These are the love at first sight, thrill of the chase, struck by cupid’s arrow songs. Maybe a bit optimistic or overzealous, but so beautiful and romantic nonetheless.
6) Sagaba remix- Blue Scholars
Best lyric: “We hardly know ourselves if we’ve got nothin’ to ride for/ A struggle to live to the fullest and die for/And make love and wage war for “
Ooh how I love Blue Scholars. Hailing from Seattle, the duo is made up of Geo, a Filipino American award winning spoken poet, and Sabzi, an Iranian American jazz-trained pianist and DJ/producer. Together they make sparks. Their music is rich with culture and strife, honesty and social commentary, poetry and inspiration. This song paints an intricate picture of a brief conversation between a beautiful woman smoking a cigarette and the man asking for her number. The reason Blue Scholars are so amazing is that through this seemingly trivial interaction, they somehow meditate on much deeper issues. There’s so much packed into this song so intricately that every time I listen I feel like I get something new from it.
7) Sunshine- Lupe Fiasco
Best lyric: “Before I bid you adieu/ Do this one thing for me: out of the trillions of numbers that’s in the world just leave me a few/ That lead to you”
This song is one long, sensual, witty, groovy, pick up line. Lupe’s words are full of sneaky tricks and metaphors that you may miss if you don’t listen closely. Lupe talks about a woman he meets at a club, and thirty minutes later is saying that she’s the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. A bit much, but who hasn’t felt like that before? Sometimes love just strikes you right down.
8) Can You Get Away- Tupac
Best lyric: “Hoping I can take you through the pain and sorrow/ Let you know I care — that someone’s there for your struggle/ Depend on me, when you have needs or there’s trouble”
How could I not include my favorite rapper of all time? To those of you who think Pac is “just a thug”, let me remind you that you can’t spell “thug” without “hug.” So there! “Can you get away” find Pac pleading for the love of a woman who is already taken. He’s a bit forlorn and defeated, ruminating, “could it be my destiny to be lonely?” but he won’t give up hope. He knows that this girl is special, and that her man isn’t loving her the way she deserves. UGH Tupac why can’t you come back to life and be my BAE.
9) Pack it up- Grieves
Best lyric: “You got me feeling like I’m choking on a wedding ring/ And I ain’t even made an introduction yet or anything”
Grieves perfectly describes the internal monologue we all go through when we see someone enchanting and are trying to work up the courage to talk to them. How do you tell someone that you think you might just be their perfect match without coming on too strong? Also, with dope horns and a catchy clap this is the kind of song that instantly gets stuck in your head all day. Just like a crush does.
10) 21 Questions- 50 Cent ft. Nate Dogg
Best lyric: “If I got locked up and sentenced to a quarter century/ could I count on you to be there to support me mentally?”
In this gem, 50 Cent interrogates his love interest with a barrage of questions to make sure that she’s for real. Rumor has it that when working on the album, Dr. Dre didn’t want this song to be included, saying “how you goin’ to be gangsta this and that and then put this sappy love song on?” 50 Cent supposedly responded, “I’m two people. I’ve always had to be two people since I was a kid, to get by. To me that’s not diversity, it’s necessity.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, the juxtaposition of hard and soft, the innate need to for love and connection even in a world where you’re constantly getting hurt, is why I think this song is one of the most romantic songs of all time.
KNEE DEEP: These are the songs for when you’re right in the thick of love. These are those feel good, this-girl-is-wifey-material joints. These are the celebrations of having found the one, the resounding joy, the wedding songs.
11) Lovelier Than You- B.O.B.
Best lyric: The whole damn bridge “I’m dangerously, dangerously, dangerously in love/ I love her more than I love myself and still it ain’t enough…a noun and a verb is just a sound/ and a word is not profound/ enough to show my urge for her smile/ I’d shout on a curb with loudspeaker till the entire town heard/ how i felt/ and I’m out”
This song is in contention for my wedding day walking down the aisle song, along with “Hold you in My Arms” by Ray Lamontagne and “Who’s that Lady?” by the Isley Brothers . What, I have eclectic tastes. Before halfway selling out and shifting to a more mainstream rap sound, B.O.B’s verses were full of odd space references, social commentary, and vulnerability. This song is a charming ode to the point you reach when you love someone so much that even their flaws become beautiful. It has this sweet “boom boom clap, boom boom boom clap” thing going on in the back that’s just delicious. It’s an easy listening, gentle love song.
12) So into you- Fabolous ft. Tamia
Best lyric: Either “Sweet thing, just to think of you dippin/ would have me with the blue’s so hard, you would think I was crippin” or “how’d you like it if both our names had Jackson on the end?”
This is like a proposal in song form. Fabolous goes on and on about all the reasons that he’s thankful for his woman, talks about how she’s taken top priority in his life over his fame and riches, and about how he loves her so much that there are no words to explain it. This song came out in the early 2000s, when I was in middle school, and I used to bump it like no one’s business. It gives me that sentimental, nostalgic feeling, the same one you get when you look back on your love journey with someone an admire how far you’ve come.
13) Love and Appreciation II- Murs
Best lyric: “Buy some flowers, open up some doors/ She need some tampons, homie go to the store!”
With a mixture of humor and honesty, Murs rags on the modern lover but attempts to empower him rather than belittle him. Murs is one of the most conscious and intriguing rappers out there. His intelligent lyrics critique contemporary relationships but then continue on to provide insight as to how to break down the walls we’ve built up and move forward. This song reprimands misogyny and urges for men to treasure women and subsequently respect themselves: “You ‘re insecure, a little unsure/ don’t know how to deal with the feelings so pure/ It’s called love, it’s joy and pain/ but you gotta take some risks to enjoy the game.”
14) Put it on Me- Ja Rule ft. lil Mo & Vita
Best lyric: “Where would I be without my baby? The thought alone might break me”
Yup, you read that right. Ja Rule made the list. I’m sure Ja isn’t the first person that pops in your mind when you think about “Valentine’s Day Playlist” (unless you’re, you know, getting down and dirty), but trust me, this song is really touching when you actually listen to the words: “Mind body and soul ain’t no I in we/ When you cry who wipes your tears?/ When you scared, who’s telling you there’s nothin to fear?/ Girl I’ll always be there/ When you need a shoulder to lean on/ Never hesitate knowing you can call on your soulmate” Sign me up for a love like that!
15) Interlude (That’s Love)- Chance the Rapper
Best lyric: “What’s better than yelling is hollerin’ love/ What’s better than rhymes, nickels, dimes and dollars and dubs/ Is dialing up your darling just for callin’ her up/
It ain’t nothing better than fallin’ in love”
Chance is one of the most exciting and creative rappers in the game right now. Kid is 22 years old, born and bred in the Chi, releases all of his music for free, and has garnered the attention and respect of rap moguls like Kanye. His music is introspective and unconventional and maintains a strong sense of authenticity and vulnerability. This little diddy is a short, two and a half minute interlude between songs on his “Acid Rap” mixtape, acknowledging the fact that love is perhaps, no most definitely, the best thing there is in this life.
16) My Beloved- Brother Ali ft. Choklate & Tone Trezure
Best lyric: “Grins and glances translate every sentence/ Into a language where the future smiles at us”
Brother Ali starts the song with the sentiment, “I am who I am because somebody loved me.” What follows is a heartfelt ode to the supreme impact that good loving has on our lives- from our friends, our families, and our significant others alike. This song is a powerful reminder that we hold the enormous power and responsibility to care for and look after one another. As Brother Ali so eloquently demands, “all we got is each other, must love radically.”
17) Love One- Common Market
Best lyric: “And ain’t that what matrimony’s about; a shared vision?/ We draw on the strengths of intellect and intuition/ You’re the symbolism of liberated women, the definition of/ What a companion does, thank you for your love”
Remember Sabzi, one half of Blue Scholars? Well he’s also one half of Common Market, hence why they’re also super dope. Sobzi produces and RA Scion raps in this supreme dedication to the women in his life. Each verse describes the gratitude and appreciation Scion has for the various women in his life- his mother, his sister, his daughter, and finally his wife. This song makes me very emotional. It’s hard to explain, but there is something so poignant and special about a man just unabashedly showering the women in his life with love and thanks. He takes his time to truly recognize the many, diverse roles that women hold, and it makes me feel comprehensively, wholly, completely appreciated for my womanhood.
HEARTBREAK: I know this is a Valentine’s Day playlist, but for some people Valentine’s Day is more like Singles Awareness Day. These are the songs for when you’re on the mend. They are raw and heartbreaking, but there’s a suprising amount of beauty and delicacy in the pain.
18)IFHY- Tyler the Creator
Best lyric: “Cause when I hear your name I can not stop cheesing/ I love you so much that my heart stops beating when you’re leaving/ And I’m grieving and my heart starts bleeding/ Life without you has no goddamn meaning”
In case you hadn’t figured it out yet, IFHY stands for “I fucking hate you.” “But I love you.,” continues Tyler in this slightly threatening ballad about his unhealthy, obsessive love. For people that aren’t familiar with Tyler the Creator and Odd Future, their brand of rap is very aggressive. They use shock tactics like violent imagery, crude language, and gross (as in disgusting) exaggeration. PSA: I do not condone this. I do, however, compel critics to assess their lyrics for their construction and artistry, and not always their content. Tyler is brilliant. Tell me you haven’t been there before, head over heels for someone who you simultaneously hate. “Crazy who makes me the happiest can make me the saddest.”
19) Runaway- Kanye West
Best lyric: “Never was much of a romantic, I could never take the intimacy/
And I know I did damage, cause the look in your eyes is killing me”
If me and Kanye were in a facebook relationship, our status would be “it’s complicated”. I low key hate the man. Okay nope that’s a lie, it’s pretty high key. But I also high key love some of his music. Yes, I am one of those “I miss old Kanye” people, and yes I know he mocks that in his new album. Whatever. My issues with Kanye aside, this is one of my all time favorite tracks of his. The barren, slow, isolated piano notes in the beginning are absolutely haunting. The lyrics are brutally introspective and comment on Kanye’s intimacy problems and how they cause him to self sabotage. I think this is a highly relateable lyric for many people. Sometimes we haven’t experienced healthy, wholesome love, and when it comes along it is too overwhelming and we end up fucking it up.
20) You Never Know- Immortal Technique
Best lyric: “The story ends without a sequel/ And now you know why Technique, don’t fucking fall in love with people”
Tech is known for his superb storytelling and his mind blowing plot twists. “You Never Know” is no different, telling the story of a beautiful, educated Latina woman who seems to not give any men the time of day. What at first comes off as condescension and arrogance unfolds to be something so much deeper. Tech tells the story over years, from their first meeting, to his time behind bars, to his discovering of her secret years later. Tech reminds us all that you never know someone’s full story, or how long you will have them in your life.
21) The Book of Soul- Ab Soul
Best lyric: (see below)
I don’t really know how to preface this song. The smooth and jazzy background against the raw, bleed vocals adds to the pain of the track. Ab Soul talks about his health complications as a child before segwaying into the death of his girlfriend. I couldn’t pick just one line to highlight, because the whole song is too damn powerful. You can hear his voice rise and fall, crack and almost break. And then the reference to my favorite Donny Hathaway song at the end. This song breaks me.
“You used to say that I could see the future
You was wrong, cause you was in it And I was just with you the day before
You said you loved me, I said I loved you more And as much I wanna cower and bid the mic adieu
And fall off a fucking tower tryna find you
I gotta stay cause I remember that day
I looked you in the face and told you
Nothing can stop me, not even you
Stick to the plan, I’ll meet you at our spot
If reincarnation is true and we don’t get too lost
Even if you forget me and everything you left behind
I never lied, I love you in a place where there’s no space and time”
The other day I was scrolling through Facebook when I came across a face a hadn’t thought about in awhile. As I looked at the picture, a surge of memories inundated my brain. Anthony was one of my childhood best friend’s older brothers, and we became friends playing middle school football together. We would chop it up at practice and then rehash game highlights and teammate drama over AIM during the evenings (that’s AOL Instant Messenger for all you noobs). Well, one fateful night shortly after my parents told me they were getting a divorce, Anthony happened to be on instant messenger. For whatever reason, maybe because he was older and always looking out for me at practice, or maybe because he came from a family I loved so much, I decided to open up to Anthony about how much pain I was in and ask for advice. I will never forget sitting in my kitchen on the computer, silent tears pouring out of my eyes, as he coached me through my mini breakdown and assured me that everything would be okay and life would go on.
As I looked at his picture on my newsfeed and reminisced, I realized that I haven’t seen or spoken to him in probably ten years. He went to a different high school than me and that was that. No hard feelings, just life taking it’s course. But it struck me how crazy it is that someone who once had gotten me through such a crucial moment in my life was now someone I didn’t even speak to, how wild it is that someone who at one point feels completely indispensable in your life can soon fade into the past.
This has been happening a lot lately in my life. I’ll come across an old photo on social media, or hear a forgotten name come up in conversation, and suddenly feel a lightning bolt of nostalgia strike my heart. Usually it’s a random old classmate or coworker, a casual buddy, but every once in awhile a face or name makes me stop dead in my tracks. Every once in a while, I find myself staring at the face, hearing the name, of someone who was once a close friend, who once owned a plot in my heart. Memories play through my mind as I test their rusty name out on my lips. I find myself trying to date my last memory with them- was it a year ago? Five?- and wondering to myself, what changed? How did someone who used to be such an intimate part of my life become relegated to a Gotye song, just someone that I used to know? How did we drift so far apart?
There is this lemon-bitter part of adulthood that I feel like no one ever warned me about or properly prepared me for. This wildly uncomfortable game that no one really knows the rules to, or how to win at. It’s called drifting apart from people that you loved, and people that you still love.
Every chapter of my life carries with it an exciting new entourage of confidantes, acquaintances, pain in the asses, and supporters. Hometown friends, high school groups, college buddies. Partners I’ve met in my travels abroad, my sports teams, my classmates and teachers, my mentors. And then the big post grad changes come, the new jobs and apartments, only further multiplying these connections. New coworkers, roommates, neighbors, a barrage of fresh familiar faces. I’m annoyingly extroverted, so these new faces always excite and intrigue me. New people mean new stories to learn, new narratives to untangle, new wishes and desires and pet peeves and hidden talents to discover. Uncharted territory, buried treasure waiting to be unearthed.
But the flip side of this, the harshest reality, is that as we make room for new connections, we edge out the old. There is a precarious give and take happening with the people in our life that we often don’t realize until, alarmed, we notice how much space has crept in.
These drifting, fading relationships aren’t all necessarily bad, though. They live on a spectrum, and they don’t all look alike. They come in many different shapes and sizes. Some are clean and well packaged, easy to decipher and comprehend, while others are messy and confusing, spilling over, leaving ugly stains. All of them are an important and necessary part of life.
On one end of the spectrum are the “people I used to enjoy bumping into”. These are the humans you would see and spend time with around campus, at work, on the field, in the neighborhood, that would brighten your day when they crossed your path. Marta, the smiley lady at the front desk of my apartment building when I studied abroad in Buenos Aires, who would greet me every day. Friends I used to have lunch at Sorrento’s pizza with during high school that I haven’t seen in years. My classmates from my Grassroots Community Development class that I used to have heart to hearts and political debates over hummus and crackers with. Your connection wasn’t one where you saw them all the time, but nonetheless you miss them when they’re gone. Some were just pleasant passerbys, but others unwittingly helped you through times of crisis (cough cough Anthony) and don’t realize how thankful you are that your paths crossed. You don’t run into them anymore because either you or they are simply off on the next adventure, but you always think of them with a smile. These are my favorite old connections- they’re on the easy to digest.
In the middle of the scale are “people I’ve ditched, sometimes on purpose, but sometimes not”. The “on purposes” are the people you’ve actively distanced yourself from. These are the people who you realized might be taking from, rather than adding to, your general happiness and well being. People you’ve grown distant from, and in that distance have noticed some problematic things you couldn’t see from up close, (or maybe chose to ignore). These separations are always bittersweet because though you’re doing them for your own good, putting time and love into someone and then walking away can make you feel like a giant failure. On top of that, these are always awkward for me because my personal mantra in my life and career is that everyone is deserving of unconditional love and of a second chance. But what I’ve (painstakingly) realized is that it is not my personal responsibility to be the one to provide those things to them. I wish them the best, but I can’t sacrifice MY best.
And then there are the “not on purposes”. These ones are somber. These the people that you’ve let yourself drift from, not because they’ve done anything wrong, but because you have trouble finding room for them. You may have outgrown them and moved on, you may just be busy and forgetful. Either way, you’ve kinda sorta abandoned them. Something I like about myself is that I try to fully engage with the person sitting in front of me. I’m a great listener and I love getting lost in a moment with a dear friend. Something I don’t like about myself is that I’m horrible at maintaining communication with people that I don’t see regularly. I’m an awful texter, hate talking on the phone, I’m forgetful and easily distracted. I’m not great at managing my time and social schedule and sometimes neglect to make time for the people who most deserve it. Out of sight, out of mind. I know that I have hurt people this way, not been there when they needed me. I’m sure there are people out there hearing my name and feeling an unsavory jolt of nostalgia, a reminder of when I was more present in their life. Like I said, these ones are kind of depressing
And then, on the far, heartrending end of the spectrum, are the “people you feel abandoned by”. The ones who it feels like you gave unrestricted access to your heart, and they just handed it back, uninterested. The ones you trusted with your tears, honored with your laughter. (Your real, full-bellied laughter, not that fake ish you hand out to any old person.) The ones you went on silent joy rides with, not saying a word, just enjoying each others’ presence. The ones that you ran and collapsed into when you lost a family member. The ones who made wholeheartedly believe you were telepathic because you swear to god you knew what they were thinking before they even said it. Those ones a hard to swallow. You wonder why they gave up on you, when they stopped liking you, what you did to deserve it. Who took your place. I’ve had a few of these in my life and when their name comes up in the the occasional conversation, I taste blood and resentment, saline and sadness.
It always makes me feel really lame when I think about someone who I used to feel close with and no longer feel that closeness. It’s confounding to look back at all the hours and days and weeks I spent loving these people, relationship watered from seed to tree, all the breakthroughs and breakdowns we shared together, and try to figure out how we reversed the process and got back to being strangers again. I tend to be a very self-blaming and over analytical person, so when I notice a relationship has faded, my visceral reaction is to run down the list in my head of things I may have done wrong, or times I was an absent friend. I’m also a goddamn stubborn person, so the next jump is to ways THEY could have been better to me, and times in which I felt abandoned. I rack up these long lists of self-loathing and finger pointing and end up feeling a bit nauseated. It’s overwhelming. I begin to ruminate on what went wrong, what that means about me as a person, what it says about the nature of friendship and love on the whole if we can be so connected at one time and strangers years later. Is anything permanent? Are any of my relationships unconditional, forever? Are they giving up on me, or am I giving up on them? WHAT IS LOVE?! (baby don’t hurt me…)
But what I’m (slowly) coming to terms with is the fact that it is all okay. That not all relationships are permanent. That people will come in and out of my life, and that when I miss someone it just means I was lucky enough to have had a positive experience with them. That I’m better off without some people, and that some people are better off without me.
And better yet, some of the relationships that consume my worries aren’t even necessarily fading, they’re just changing. Evolving, condensing, regrowing under a new light. As scary as it is, change is necessary, and isn’t always a bad thing. I sixth grade, my best friend Brittney and I spent I think every single day together. as well as most Friday and Saturday nights because she slept over my house every freakin’ weekend. We sang and danced to Usher’s confessions album, hungout at the Boys and Girls Club, ate McChickens on the reg, and played catch in the front yard or down at Alumni field for hours. Now Britt lives an hour away, we text every now and then, and we see each other once month if we’re lucky. I’d love to see her more, but we’re both busy with our different lives and we don’t hold that against one another. Has our relationship changed since we were kids? Yes. Did it change when we went to different high schools, through college and beyond? Of course. But do I still feel like she’s my best friend? Like I could tell her anything without judgment, lean on her in any crisis, laugh with her over the most ridiculous jokes? Duh. I know! Some people are just written on your heart in permanent marker.
As I’m maturing in my relationships, I’m realizing that closeness isn’t dictated by space or time, frequency of calls or length of visits, but by an unspeakable, intangible connection between two souls. That it doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen some of my best friends for months or even years, what matters is that when they’re in town my heart lights up, the conversation flows like cheap alcohol, I feel comfortable in my own skin, that we pick right back up wherever we left off. We never guilt trip each other, but instead encourage and empower. These relationships are built for the long run.
But even if they are not- even if they splinter or crack, fade or grow dull, I will be okay. I will come across their name twenty years down the road, smile, and be thankful for the role that they played in my story. It’s a give and take, and drifting is a part of life. And hey, who knows who I might drift into next.
It’s been a good long while since I’ve written a blog post, and people keep asking what the heck the deal is. Well, I’ve got a funny story for ya! A little over a month ago, I sat in my bed and wrote (what I thought was) a truly inspired and honest blog about about self care. It was full of highs and lows and drama and poetic self discovery, and ended with a self-righteous call to arms, preaching about how we can’t hope to be a helpful presence in others’ lives if we don’t first help ourselves! Bravo Sarah! So hashtag #inspiring!
Hospital party!
I was all geared up to post it, when all of the sudden I had to go to the ER and get emergency back surgery. How ironic is that?! Clearly I wasn’t self-caring very well. It was abrupt and unexpected and scary, and every health professional at the hospital had the same set of questions for me: What happened? Why did you deal with this pain for so long before getting it checked out? How did you let it get to this point?
Good question. Let me rewind a little bit.
Leading up to self care blog #1 (the ill-fated test run), I had been going through some difficulties with my health and with my job, and I hadn’t been taking proper care of myself. Physically, I was struggling with some yet-to-be determined back pain. I spent my days hobbling around, gangsta leaning to the left to alleviate the electric jolt I felt every time I walked…or sat…or lied down. I tried to numb the discomfort by ignoring it (and by taking about 20 ibuprofen a day), but it was absolutely wearing me down. At work, I was struggling with, well, the gravity of working in a residential home. Working with kids who’ve been severely traumatized is a difficult thing. There’s these buzzwords in the field- “secondhand trauma,” or “vicarious traumatization,” and they have some veracity to them. You begin to absorb some of the clients’ pain. It’s sort of like missing the major earthquake, but feeling the aftershocks. Our kids had been dealing with self-harm and suicidal ideation, and one particular string of incidents had left me feeling very rattled and raw.
It had all come to a gruesome head one afternoon on the way to work as I had to pull off of the highway because, what else, I was hyperventilating and crying too much (all aboard the hot mess express!) I called my mom and could hardly form coherent words. She talked me down, but it was clear I wasn’t functioning properly. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and after some wise counsel from mom, I called work and made a bold and very un-Sarah like move: I took the rest of the week off to rest and heal.
The three days off felt strangely long. I took refuge at my dad’s house, shut my phone off, and tried to live deliberately, yet softly. I indulged myself, sleeping in, reading, journaling, eating lots of delicious home cooked meals, and having extensive heart to hearts with my parents. It felt good.
But I also felt a lot of guilt. I felt lame, incompetent, like I was abandoning my clients and coworkers. I wondered if I was any good at my job, if I was too weak of a person to pursue the field I love. I felt selfish, like I was being ungrateful and dramatic when there were other people persevering through problems much more serious than mine. I felt uncomfortable asking for help.
After a few days of rest, relaxation, and retail therapy, I returned to work, convincing myself that I was much healthier and on top of things. I patted myself on the back for taking time to focus on me, wrote my little blog, felt good about myself, and headed back into work feeling “refreshed!”.
A half hour into work, I was dealing with yet another self-harm issue. As I washed someone else’s blood off of me for what felt like the hundredth time, I grew tense. The week that followed was okay. But I couldn’t kick the fog, and remained tense, reactive, and cranky, despite my desperate want to be my good-old, optimistic, sunny self. The weekend came and went, and I entered the following Monday in decent spirits and lots of back pain. Around 6pm I got a call back from my doctor’s office.
I had called my doctor that afternoon and left a message alerting her to some new symptoms I was feeling in my back, most notably, numbness at the bottom of my spine. Welp, she called me back while I was cooking dinner with one of the boys, and told me that I needed to go to the emergency room. “How soon?” I asked. “I’m working until eleven, can I go then?”
“You need to go ASAP.” Uh oh.
Fast forward to 3 am that night. After hours in the emergency room, multiple doctors, and an MRI, I was given my results. I had a severely herniated disc in my lower back and would need surgery. “How soon?” I found myself asking, again.
And again, the same response: “ASAP.”
Apparently, the disc in my back was so far out of place that it was threatening permanent nerve damage. My neurosurgeon called it “one of the worst he’s ever seen” and “incredibly rare in such a young patient.” Cool! Nice! Love it! That afternoon I had the emergency surgery.
And that’s when I realized that my blog was full of absolute crap. I was not on top of things, I hadn’t figured out some secret zen balance to life. Nope, I couldn’t be farther from it. I was a physical and emotional mess. I was a phony. And despite my efforts, I was still taking crap care of myself.
I awoke from surgery that evening hazy-eyed and semi-sedated. I was excited about a successful surgery and very, very hungry. I ate a bunch of food and went to bed in good spirits. When I woke up the next morning, however, the reality of the situation began to sink in. I was going to be out of commission for 4-8 weeks. I would be in pain, relatively immobile, and mostly useless for awhile. I couldn’t bend, or twist, or lift anything over ten pounds. I would need help with menial tasks, like putting on my shoes or doing my laundry. I would have to cancel all my plans- I couldn’t go to the concert I had been looking forward to, attend the wedding I was excited about, celebrate my friend’s birthday with him. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t play, I couldn’t dance. The forecast was gloomy.
There is this really helpful mantra that I’ve adopted in times of distress, passed from my wonderful aunt Marion to my dad to me. When something trying or unsavory happens, ask yourself, “What is the universe teaching me?” Sometimes it’s difficult to find the meaning through the agony, but in this case the answer was glaring me in the face; I just didn’t want to admit it.
But it couldn’t ignore it, it couldn’t be any clearer. The universe was putting me on my ass- both figuratively and literally- to teach me a lesson in self care. It was forcing me to make a complete stop, re-examine my life, and finally acknowledge all the symptoms I had been ignoring, the physical and emotional ailments that I had been minimizing and plowing through. The universe was warning me that if I kept using band-aid solutions on these serious issues, I would pay for it.
My wonderful friends visiting me
Even though the lesson was in plain sight, it was and continues to be a struggle. I am four weeks and some change into the recovery process. Physically, I feel better than I have in months. The chronic pain is gone, and my mobility is finally back. I feel able-bodied, something I’d taken for granted before but now feel so psyched about. I can finally focus on getting my health routine on track.
Mentally and emotionally, however, is a bit of a different story. I’ve realized that I’ve just begun the healing process. I’ve had a break from many of the stresses in my life, so I want to pretend like I’ve squelched them. But in reality, nothing has changed, they’re still there, I just haven’t had to face them in awhile. And they will be until I learn how to manage them in a thoughtful and healthy way.
I think you all know that I’m a feeler, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I have a spongy heart. I become saturated in emotion very easily, both others’ and my own. It makes my life passionate and vivid, but it also makes me feel heavy many days. I hold these things deep in me, but occasionally they leak out. On rare occasion, I burst. It’s not healthy. I need to learn how to drain myself periodically so that I don’t overflow. I can’t help but think that a lot of my back issues over the past few months have been affected by my psychological state, stress and pain manifesting themselves physically.
Putting all this down in words is so concrete and tangible, and I’m sure it makes it look like I’ve had some sage epiphany and know exactly what I’m doing and what I need to continue to do. But in the nature of being more honest with my emotions, I’ll let you in on how all of this feels off of a sheet of paper and in practice: fucking difficult.
If I had to characterize this time of my life in one word, it would probably be “defensive.” Generally I do a really good job at putting on my game face and playing the role of the fun-loving, cheerful and optimistic friend. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not disingenuous, it’s just the side of me that I’m most comfortable showing off. But there is another side of me that not many people experience. I have a lot of pride. I have trouble asking for help. I am incredibly stubborn. I’m reactive, and I have a lot of anger and jealousy inside of me that I try to hide and convert into other, less ugly emotions.
So many lovely cards!
This past month has brought a lot of these personality traits to the surface as I’ve tried to fend off all the people who have tried to help me. (Side note: I owe a big thank you, and a big I’m sorry to everyone who’s had to deal with my mood swings over the last month, but most of all to my Mom, Dad, and best friend Rivka, who I’ve taken out the brunt of my anger on. Thank you. I’m sorry.) Like I said, pride, man, it’ll kill ya. Makes it hard to accept help from others. But you know what will humble you up real quick? Having to ask your mom for help shaving your legs or tying your shoes because you can’t bend that way. My surgery forced me to confront a lot of my emotional problems. A blessing in disguise.
I have some things I need to work on. I have some experiences and issues that I need to work out. None of them are particularly tremendous or traumatizing on their own, but they’ve affected me nonetheless, and grouped together they frame the way I view the world and myself. We all have these moments, the ones that go unnoticed at the time, but then years later we realize were a turning point. They’re not an inherently bad thing, they teach us so much. The danger is in letting them lie stagnant. Bad feelings unaddressed are like a disease untreated- they grow and spread.
I’m sitting on some bad memories and emotions and letting them fester. And I’m taking in new ones that, left untreated, could turn into problems down the line. There’s this Maya Angelou quote that has always screamed out at me. She says, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” I always took it in the context of being a author, urging other writers to flex their craft and put their stories on paper. Then I realized that it’s not about writers, but about the human condition itself. “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” I can’t think of a greater pain than suffering in secret, than hurting in isolation.
And so. (As if I haven’t held you here long enough!) One final string of thoughts, one last declaration. Here I am, exposed and uncomfortable, sharing this all with you in an effort to hold myself accountable. My new goal is to be even more exposed and even more uncomfortable. (Also to work on my core strength so I don’t re-herniate my disc). I’ve started looking for a therapist so that I can be more open with myself (holla at ya gurl if you have any good recommendations in the Boston area!). I’m also pledging to blog more, and about more personal topics, so that I can be more open with everyone else in my life (albeit in my own, slightly indirect, self-preserving way). I’d like to do some work to marry the two sides of me because I think that is what would make me truly happiest. Maybe I can be pridefully vulnerable, reactive but reflective, and stubbornly optimistic.
One of things I struggle most with in this world is change. It’s a beautiful, necessary part of life, but my fierce sentimentality and hunger for nostalgia make new faces and shifting landscapes feel like a violent rip current rather than a new wave of possibility. Instead of looking forward with bright eyes, I can’t tear my sight from what was and grow anxious that I’m closing a chapter I can never reopen, leaving goodness behind, leaving without saying goodbye. My stress manifests itself in procrastination, trying to put the next step off; in brattiness, taking out my anger in petty ways on those round me; and in tears, lots and lots of tears.
Enter the past summer: This past summer I lived at home in my childhood house on Marks Way alongside my two little brothers, Sam and Jake, and my furry little brother, Fenway. The long summer days consisted of lots of informal sibling meals, mid afternoon cuddle sessions with Fenny, reality TV binges with my mom, and of course, an open, revolving door of family, friends, and everyone in between. Never empty or quiet, the house has always been a mashup melody of layered voices mixed with laughter, warm and inviting smells drifting from the kitchen, the occasional screaming match over who gets the car for the night, and of course, four little paws clicking at the hardwood floor. This summer was no different. Life was busy and happy and close to capacity.
And then August took a swing at me. First Sam left to return for his junior year at my alma matter, Umass Amherst. But this time he took Jake, my youngest brother, the baby of this crazy family, with him! Jake, the person I will eternally view as 6 years old, running through the backyard in an oversized diaper, left for his freshman year of college. When did my little dudes become adults?
Next it was my turn to leave the roost. After a summer of stressful searching and snags, I was finally able to find an apartment I could believe in. My high school best friend Rivka and I took a leap of faith (and desperation) and moved into a 5 bedroom in Roxbury with 3 girls we met on Craigslist. A unfamiliar place, new people, lots of inherent risk, but it was what we needed to do to be adults and grow the heck up!
Then came the blow we all knew was coming but no one knew how they would handle. The house sold. My home for the last 17 years, the only place I really can ever remember calling home. We moved there when I was about to turn 6, and my mom and dad had eagerly watched the plot go from foundation to home as we became the first family to step foot inside its new walls. Days after we moved in we got Paws, my puppy/childhood best friend/soulmate, and she lived all 15 years as queen of the house. Wisps of her fur still curl and hide in corners and beneath radiators, refusing to leave her home.
Relics like Paws’ ancient fur were all around the house, invisible to the naked eye but clear as day to me and my family. The house was covered in marks and scrapes and holes, and each scar held a memory. Like the strawberry applesauce stain on the living room ceiling, from when Sam became particularly angry and expressive while eating his afternoon snack. Or the missing rail at the top of the staircase, from when Jake fell sick in the middle of the night and puked loudly enough in the hallway to wake up my dad, who ran to help his young son, and in the process slipped on aforementioned throw up and went flying, one leg breaking right through the rails. Or the hole I kicked in the bottom of my bedroom door from when my mom grounded me for coming home past curfew and I missed the Dave Matthews concert. There’s the Eiffel tower statue and angel figurines on the mantle that look whole, but upon closer inspection have superglue lines, because Jake and Fenway played soccer a bit too aggressively in the living room. The cushion that we flipped over to hide the remnants of a bloody nose, the kitchen rug hiding the floor that both dogs frayed and chewed at, the forty two thousand soccer and basketball and tennis balls hiding in the woods and around the driveway. These bumps and bruises were always my favorite part- they felt like little treasures and stories hidden around the house and in the walls. They made it OUR home, different than anyone else’s. My favorite place.
When I walked through the house for one final time as the movers loaded the last pieces of furniture into their truck, my brain fought off reality and automatically filled in all the empty spaces. I looked into empty bedrooms and scenes from endless slumber parties splashed across my mind, glanced into the open abyss of the dining room and instantly saw Thanksgiving dinners and Valentine’s Day breakfasts’ on grandma’s red china. I looked out back at the deck and yard and remembered the swingset we had monkeyed around on until it broke, the neighborhood back to school parties with a school bus shaped cake we had had on the back deck. The empty foyer felt so foreign, because I had only ever known filled with shoes and backpacks and jackets flung off onto the hardwood floor. And the living room, my last, longest glance. I looked around at the empty walls and saw pictures hanging, people laughing, heard 100 movies play. I looked at the corner and a towering Christmas tree, littered with presents flashed across my mind. So much pain and joy was held between those four walls. But it was time to say goodbye and leave this time capsule behind.
And finally, the obvious aftermath of selling the house: my mom and Fenway were moving. This is also something I’ve known has been coming for a long time, but something that I’ve placed off in an unknown future ad never really processed until now. My mom is my best friend. She’s my biggest fan, my consultant, my confidante, and also one of my mortal enemies. (Due to us having the exact same personality, if we spend more than a few consecutive hours together, we begin to lash out at each other. Okay, mostly me at her). And yet, as I said, she is one of my best friends. She is the person I go to when I need to feel listened to and heard and loved, when I need advice, and when I need a good argument. She raised me in the house on Marks Way, an insanely overworked and under appreciated treasure of a mom, making sure I was at every practice and my belly was always full of delicious meals. And in the middle of all the ruckus, she fell madly in love with a traveling soldier. She helped me navigate the treacherous waters of being a teenager and young adult, all while her heart traveled from one war zone to the next. She waited patiently for years, let us all stay planted firmly in the ground we’d been grown in, let us all finish out high school at home and head to college before even considering finally joining her hubby and focusing on their life together. But with Jake starting at Umass, her job is finally done. It’s time for her to live her own life, and as happy as we all are for her, it is still bittersweet.
So to recap: in one month, my youngest sibling started college, I moved into a new apartment, my childhood home was sold, and my mom and my puppy moved to Maryland. And those are just the things I feel comfortable sharing on the interweb!
I feel like I’ve undergone a dramatic life shift, a deep sea-change, bridged the final gaps between childhood and adulthood. I feel very saturated, full of emotions and constantly at the risk of spilling over. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t kind of scared, a little intimidated. Up until this point my life has been mostly mapped out, and I’ve lived in a world of constants and reliability. (What a privileged sentence to be able to write, how goddamn lucky am I?) But right now everything’s feeling new and unknown and though I feel prepared and competent, I also feel pretty alone and nervous.
You know how strong emotions lump themselves together, attacking you in groups? Well, with all the change and nostalgia and stirring up of old memories I’ve been doing, some deeply embedded, old pains have resurfaced. I have unfinished business in my heart and mind that I’ve been blissfully ignoring that I need to finally address. This is a very scary thought.
There is fear, but there is also so much beauty. My friends and family, the poor souls, have been so kind and understanding when I inexplicably snap or shed a tear (or a ton of tears). My support system has been there by my side, more aware of my feelings than me! For most of the summer I just decided to put everything in the back of my mind and ignore it, but my close friends could not be fooled that easily, and constantly checked up on me to make sure I was doing okay. Better yet, they encouraged me to embrace my feelings, allowed me to be sad when I was pretending that I wasn’t. Just last week I called my best friend Lily (who just moved to California, talk about changes! I miss you Lily!!!!) sobbing. As I calmed to steady hiccups I tried to change the subject and say I was fine, and Lily responded, “stop trying to trivialize your sadness, Sarah! You have every right to be sad!” What a gem of a human bean.
Perhaps my biggest supports through it all has been my mom and dad. Both of them are incredibly sentimental, nostalgic, emotional people as well (no wonder I turned out like this, thanks mom and dad!), and we’ve all been going through the changes together. The best part about them is that like Lily, they encourage me to acknowledge pain and discomfort, wade right through it and let myself get wet, rather than try to skip over it and stay dry. (I grew up with the quote “Live to the point of tears” pinned on the bulletin board in my mom’s kitchen). When my mom left for Maryland last Friday, things finally felt real, and I decided it was time to make a change, but this time, on my own terms! And so this past weekend, I took a passage from a poem my dad had written to me, and got it tattooed on my left shoulder. It reads:
“She knew what must be done, how the feet
must move to make the music flow
again. But not yet. Now is the pause,
the poise of holding a hard position
between beats, trying to listen, really
listen through the wondrous
unease, beyond anything anyone can tell her”
And so now I am pausing. I am going to take a break before moving forward and explore the wondrous unease and see what I can unearth about this time, about myself. And when I’m ready, I will pick back up, move forward, and hear the music of my life play once again. But I’m in no rush.
included fun rides in his cop car, listening to calls over the radio and begging him to say my name over the loudspeaker. He was the most important and special man I knew. I was in awe of his uniform and enraptured by his stories. Sometimes the stories were very scary, though. I’m sure he kept the scariest ones from us kids, but even with what we knew it was clear that he was in a position of great power, but great risk as well. I loved my Pop Pop more than anything and I prayed for him each night.
beats, floating on the melodies, and listening as the most beautiful poetry I’d ever heard dripped into my ears. I felt like I had discovered this whole other world I had never known existed, this second side of reality, so much different from the one I was being taught about at school. One rife with pain and struggle and tension, one they told me had ended years ago in history class. The figurehead of this realization and changing world view was Tupac Shakur. I remember the first time I heard “Ghetto Gospel,” I was completely captivated. I listened to it on repeat until I knew every word. Tupac was my teacher, my idol, my second biggest clue into what kind of person I wanted to be, after my Pop Pop of course.
police officers while the world watched. Last week Alton Sterling was shot and killed by police officers while the world watched. When someone makes a mistake or abuses their power, (it feels belittling to even call a murder a “mistake”), they need to be held accountable. When there is a continual problem in a system, it must be addressed. To acknowledge that there is a problem within the system does not equate to blaming every individual, or being vehemently against the institute. When I say that there is a massive problem with our criminal justice system, people somehow hear that as me saying “All police officers and judges are bad and giant racists.” Why are we hearing that? That is not at all what I’m saying. I’m saying that there is an issue with how the system works. The system has historically, disproportionately targeted/attacked/imprisoned/killed people of color. (Again, if you seek facts and figures to help you understand/believe points I make, please reach out and I will provide them. A great read in reference to this statement is “The New Jim Crow” by Michelle Alexander.)
some reason, many audiences hear “black lives matter” as “black lives matter more,” or “black lives matter only”. That is not what the movement is saying. The BLM movement was borne in response to the continual discrimination, stereotyping, racial profiling, blatant acts of violence and racism, and brutalizing and killing of black people at the hands of both individuals and state institutions. In response to hundreds of years of black lives being enslaved, ridiculed, attacked, devalued, and deemed as “less than.” There is a need to say “black lives matter” because they have been historically shown that they don’t. The BLM movement asks for black lives to finally be seen as equal to. Duh all lives matter, we all know that, black people just want to see that theirs do too!
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Growing Up or Something Like It 